


The Ice Man

by The_Persian_Slipper



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Drug Use, Frozen AU, It's still a musical, M/M, POV Alternating, Rating May Change, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Frozen AU, So people will start singing for no reason, You Have Been Warned, Young Holmes Brothers, Young John Watson, do not copy to other sites
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Persian_Slipper/pseuds/The_Persian_Slipper
Summary: When the King and Queen if Londondalle are lost at sea, it falls onto the reclusive crown prince Mycroft to take the throne and rule the peaceful northen kingdom. But the biggest threat to Londondalle may be hidden within his own cold heart.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 201
Kudos: 72
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. To Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you want to build a snowman? No, scratch that.  
> This is a slightly darker take on Frozen I, as would befit a Sherlock AU. It's still funny (I hope) and people will still break into song for no good reason.  
> This is a huge step for me. This is my second only fic, and the first time I attempt to do multiple chapters.I have made sure not to search for any other Frozen AUs on AO3, so I wouldn't feel intimidated. I have no idea how many of these are out there, but this is my own take on this alternate universe. I hope you will enjoy it. I'm having a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> My many thanks to CarmillaCarmine for the beta and generally holding my hand through this.

“John.”

John grumbled and turned away from the voice. He hid his face in Harry’s coarse hair and sighed deeply. Everything was warm and comfortable. Perfect.

“Come on, lad, wake up!” Bill insisted. “You need to get up!” He drove his point further by unceremoniously pulling away John’s blankets and shoving them on the floor, leaving John to curl up against the cool air.

Harry, the traitor, stood up and stretched languidly before trotting after Bill into the kitchen. John, now divested of blankets and pillow, resigned himself to his fate. He stood up from his cot, put on his shoes and blearily made his way into the next room.

The fire was already roaring in the kitchen’s hearth, painting everything in rich orange hues. Bill stood by the iron cauldron that bubbled over the fire, pouring porridge into large bowls. Harry was gobbling up her bucket full of oats by the washing basin. John patted her rump on his way to the table. He accepted his porridge from Bill with a yawned ‘thank you’.

The room was quiet while they ate, the silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and Harry’s loud chewing.

“You need to start waking up earlier, Johnny.” Bill admonished around a mouth full of porridge. “We kept you here after your dad buggered off to God knows where, but you need to earn your keep.” 

John nodded solemnly, but the effect was lost over his porridge smudged face. 

A smile started pulling on the foreman’s face. “Yours and that reindeer of yours!” He pointed his wooden spoon at Harry, who had finished her oats and was now scratching herself behind her ear, much like dogs are wont to do. “I’ll go bankrupt feeding that goblin!”

John giggled at the comparison. “I’ll do my best, Mr Murray, I promise. But Harry’s just a calf, she needs to eat!”

Bill stood up from the table with a smile. “So are you. Now finish your porridge and go set the tables. I’ll go wake up the men.”

John nodded and set about finishing the last dregs in his bowl. He felt a cold blast of air on his back when Bill Murray stepped into the night with his lamp, before he closed the heavy door behind him.

The boy finished his breakfast and took the dirty bowls to the wash basin. Feeling fortified after his warm meal, he set to work with energy, humming a melody he had heard the ice harvesters sing while they work.

“Hmhmhm… _strong and clear_ …”

He climbed a wooden stool to reach the cupboard, Harry playfully nipping at his socked ankles. John took a moment to look outside the frosty window panes and spared a thought for his father. Outside the cabin, the sun had yet to rise. The sky was dark but clear and scattered with stars. Off in the distance he could hear Bill Murray ringing the bell to rise the ice harvesters. 

The foreman had employed his father this harvesting season, eight-year-old son in tow and all. But the problem that had driven Hamish Watson from their _siiddaat_ was the same that had him disappear into the night a month ago, leaving his son in the care of the ice harvesters. 

No one expected him to come back.

John climbed down the stool with an armful of wooden bowls.

“ _Strike for love and strike for fear_!” he sang, trying to deepen his childish voice. Harry licked his chubby cheeks.

“Harry! Stop it, I’m working!” 

Had he thought about it for long enough, John would have considered himself almost relieved that his drunken father had disappeared and left him behind. Gone where the days when he was dragged from town to town, looking for someone who would employ his father. He wouldn't need to look for him in the taverns and pick him up from the streets, anymore.

John had everything he needed. He had Harry - the calf he raised by hand when his father was still a reindeer herder - and now he had a purpose. He would stay and help Mr Murray and he would learn how to be the best ice harvester in the Kingdom.

 _“Split the ice apart_!” he put the bowls down in time with the song.

His eight-year-old brain didn’t stop to consider what would happen when the ice harvesting season ended and winter came.

“ _Beware the frozen heart!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siiddaat - Reindeer herding groups constituted by several Sámi families and their herds.  
> Since the original Frozen script described the Ice Harvesters as dressed in typical Sámi clothing, I decided to roll with it and make John Sámi.


	2. Beware the Frozen Heart

The ice harvesters arrived at the lake just as the horizon was turning a dark shade of pink. The frosty wind blew gently through the trees, waking the birds that rested on their branches.

The men and the horses made their way slowly onto the frozen lake, adapting their stance with the ease that comes from many years of working on icy terrain. John and Harry were allowed to ride on the ice cart on the way to the lake, but would have to make it back on their own, when the cart would be filled with ice blocks and the horses would struggle with the weight.

The ice cart stopped with a jolt near the lake’s center. John didn’t need to be told twice to jump down and make way for the men approaching the cart to collect their tools. He waited patiently until the last one took his ice saw and quickly climbed back in to bring down his own prized possession. A little sled that two of the ice harvesters had gifted him a week ago. 

Both men worked as carpenters in Londondalle during the summer and winter, but were employed by Bill Murray as ice harvesters during the season. When a storm had kept them from going to the lake for a few days, the carpenters had decided to use some scraps of wood to put together a little sled for the abandoned boy and his reindeer. 

John had received his gift with tears in his eyes and a promise to take the absolute best care of it. 

The ice harvesters didn’t waste time in getting to work. The days were getting shorter as winter approached, and every minute counted before it became too dark to navigate the frozen expanse of the lake. 

They formed groups to score the lake and begin splitting the ice. Some drove the horses as they pulled menacing ice plows, others worked with ice picks, chisels and saws. John ran after them with his own ice chisel, Harry hot on his heels. 

Soon, the ice was cut and blocks began to make their way through the newly made water channels and towards the ice cart. Cutting and pulling, the harvesters worked in perfect coordination.

The repetitive motion marked the tempo of a working song, one that John had come to know these last two months.

One of the men, Arthur, set the tone with his gruff voice. 

“ _Born of cold and winter air_

 _And mountain rain combining_ ,”

Without prompting, the men around Arthur joined him in a chorus of mismatched voices.

“ _This icy force both foul and fair_

 _Has a frozen heart worth mining_.”

Soon, every man in the lake was singing the ancient song, their movements in time with the beats. Cutting and pulling, cutting and pulling.

“ _Cut through the heart, cold and clear!_

_Strike for love and strike for fear!_

_See the mind both sharp and sheer._

_Split the ice apart_

_And break the frozen heart!_ ”

John stood by the water channel, his little ice chisel forgotten in his hands. He was perplexed by the sound of the voices reverberating in the quiet valley, the words ressonating in his mind.

_“Beautiful, powerful, dangerous, cold._

_Ice has a magic can't be controlled!_

_Stronger than one, stronger than ten,_

_Stronger than a hundred men!”_

The boy was startled out of his reverie by Harry’s wet tongue licking his cheek.

“It’s alright, Harry,” he assured his friend, “It’s a pretty song, isn’t it?” He asked, scratching the reindeer under her chin. Harry closed her eyes and stretched her neck with pleasure.

“Let’s get back to work!” John renewed his efforts to pick a single block of ice from the freezing water. This time he joined the song, trying to deepen his voice to match his companions.

_“Born of cold and winter air_

_And mountain rain combining._

_This icy force both foul and fair_

_Has a frozen heart worth mining.”_

With a heave, he finally pulled the translucent block from the water and would have toppled over if Harry hadn’t been behind him to push him back upright.

John quickly looked around to see if any of the men had noticed his accomplishment, but all of them were fixed on their own dangerous task. They kept singing the old melody.

_“Cut through the heart, cold and clear!_

_Strike for love and strike for fear!_

_There's beauty and there's danger here._

_Split the ice apart_

_Beware the frozen heart!”_

Feeling a bit disappointed, John wiped his sweaty forehead and began pulling his block towards the cart.

-

The sun was halfway through its short arch when the men put down their tools to eat and rest. The ice blocks still needed to be cut to size, loaded into the cart and stored, so the men took this moment to regain their strength before continuing their arduous task.

They were seated in a circle, some on reindeer pelts, others on wooden crates. The sun shone brightly on their reddened faces while they ate their portions of bread and salted fish. John had quickly finished his own portion and stood a bit away from them, by the newly made water channel. He was conspicuously throwing a stick for Harry to catch while trying to eavesdrop on the men’s conversation.

“Then I told Agnes, I said,” Danny halted his story to take another hearty bite of fish, “I said, ‘I was talking to a customer at the shop, that’s why I’m home late!’, and she said ‘If you like your customers so much, see if they’ll cook your dinner, because I’m going to my mother’s!’” The audience erupted in laughter. Danny was a natural storyteller and his romantic misadventures were a favourite among the ice harvesters.

“And she just left me standing there!” he continued, smiling at the assembly “Frozen cold heart, that woman’s. Could have dragged it up from the bottom of the lake myself!” A new wave of laughter passed through the men. Some muttered their agreement.

John’s face bore the smile of someone who doesn’t understand the joke but wants to be part of the merriment anyway. He looked at Harry, who had the same oblivious expression in her eyes. “Your heart frozen too?” Harry looked at John some more, and then licked his nose.

John gave a high pitched giggle but was quick to cover his mouth. He didn’t want the ice harvesters to think he was some sort of baby.

The boy had just thrown Harry’s retrieved stick again, when suddenly something in the water’s ripple caught his eye. He stared at the lake’s quiet surface for a moment. A flash of white appeared under the water.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, John walked carefully towards the channel's newly formed margins. Again, he could see something white and silver dancing for a moment under the surface. He kneeled down and held his gloved hands to the ice's sharp borders. The sunshine pierced the icy water in bright blue pillars that disappeared into its depths. There was nothing but a dark stillness.

All of a sudden, a white shadow came into shape a few feet below the surface. John leaned forward to try and make it out. Slowly, the shadow grew fins and a billowy tail and John realized he was looking at an enormous fish. It’s movements were calm and mesmerizing and its scales shone silver and blue where they caught the sunshine. The fish danced in and out of sight as it hid under the ice, only to appear again in the sunlit water. So entranced was John by his discovery that he didn’t hear the cracking under his hands.

Suddenly, the ice under him had broken into pieces and his feet were hovering in the air. Bill Murray had pulled him up by the collar of his woolen jumper just in time to save him from falling into the icy water.

The foreman deposited John unceremoniously next to Danny on the reindeer pelt, much to the general amusement.

“Careful, Johnny! You don’t want to end up like old Paul over there!” Danny pointed to the man across from him. He looked old to John’s young eyes, but he wasn’t a day over forty-two. His face, burned from years of working in harsh conditions, was etched with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, and whenever he took off his hat, you could see he was missing the top of his left ear and much of his right one. 

“I was seventeen when I fell into the lake,” Paul explained with a toothless smile “Couldn’t make it home in time before the frost took my ears.” 

“What were you looking for, anyway?” interrupted Bill. John was suddenly very interested in his gloves. He didn’t want the men to know he almost took a dive because of a stupid fish.

“Maybe he was looking for Agnes’ frozen heart!” Danny suggested. John felt his cheeks heat at the laughter that ensued.

“How does your heart freeze, anyway? Is it when you fall into the lake, too?” the boy looked up at Bill, barely concealing his frustration. He was getting fed up of all this talk of frozen body parts.

Bill looked pensive for a moment before he answered “No, it’s just a way of saying it, a…” he trailed off.

“Mephator?” Paul offered.

“That!” Bill exclaimed “It means you don’t have any warm feelings towards nobody. You’re just angry and don’t care what happens to other people.”

“But why does it happen?” John pressed. Was it because you were out in the cold for too long? How could it work if it was frozen? Would it melt again? Or would it just dry and fall off like Paul’s ears?

“Some people are just born with it, I think,” a dark look came over Bill’s countenance as he spoke “Others just freeze their hearts up themselves.”

“Like Agnes!” Danny piped. Some of the men groaned at the soon-to-be-stale joke.

“Or the Queen!” Arthur added. John ears pricked up his at the mention of the royal family.

“Hush!” Bill elbowed Arthur in the side. 

“What? Nobody’s listening to us!” he protested. The other men looked at him uneasily.

“Anyway, frozen hearts can be dangerous, boy! And they can freeze everything around them!” Danny stood up and reached for his ice pick. The other harvesters took his lead and stood up as well.

“How… How do you stop hearts from doing that?” John asked hurriedly as everyone reached for their tools to resume their work.

Danny smiled brightly at him. “Dunno… Put them in the sun?”

John scrunched up his nose. "That doesn't make any sense." 

"Hearts don't make sense, anyway," he answered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, first song!  
> Fans of the movie will notice that I've fiddled with the lyrics to "The Frozen Heart". Just imagine what I'll do with the rest of the songs ;)


	3. Redbeard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the royal princes of Londondalle, as they sneak out of their rooms past their bedtime.

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft grumbled and turned away from his sibling’s voice. He hid his face in his down pillow and sighed deeply. Everything was warm and comfortable. Perfect. 

“My-croft.” Sherlock insisted, raising his voice from a stage whisper to a whine. Mycroft felt a cold, chubby hand push up his left eyelid. 

“Hey, wake up!”

“Go away, Sherlock.” His clear blue eye fixed on Sherlock’s face. In the darkness of their room he could make out his brother peeping over the bed at him, his head crowned by a shock of black curls. Mycroft tried to convey his sternest look while hiding most of his face in his pillow. His brother was not fazed by this demonstration.

“You need to wake up,” the five-year-old insisted. Mycroft could have sworn he heard a naked foot stomping on the carpet.

“No, I don’t,” he stated matter-of-factly, and turned onto his other side. “Go to bed.”

Not to be deterred, Sherlock scrambled up the bed and laid unceremoniously on top of Mycroft, ignoring his protests as to being used as a mattress.

“I can’t!” Sherlock declared solemnly. He flopped on his back and stretched his arms over his head and towards the window, as if trying to reach the night sky.

The northern lights could be seen dancing in the uppermost corner of the large triangular window. The green waves moved to and fro, as if responding to Sherlock reaching hands. Mycroft considered his brother’s penchant for theatrics very annoying. 

Sherlock continued his soliloquy. “Can’t you _thee_ , brother? The sky’s awake, _tho_ I’m awake! _Th_ o… I’m waking you up!” He turned and grabbed the edge of Mycroft’s covers to pull them down “Let’ _th_ go play!”

Mycroft had had enough. “No, it’s late, go to bed!” he pushed his little brother off the bed and pulled his covers over his head, trying to shut himself from the world.

Everything was blissfully silent for a minute. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had finally admitted defeat. But he knew his brother better than that. True enough, Mycroft felt a gentle hand pushing the covers from his face. An icy blue eye peeked at him, conspiratorial. 

“Do you want to _th_ olve a murder?”

Mycroft smiled despite himself. Between Sherlock’s insistence and the way his much denied lisp kept infiltrating his entreaties, Mycroft was soon out of arguments to keep refusing his brother.

He heaved a theatrical sigh himself and sat on his bed. “Alright, alright, no need to throw a tantrum.”

“I’m not!” Sherlock protested as he ran towards their wardrobe to take out their snow boots, a delighted smile on this little face. He pushed the larger pair on Mycroft’s lap and plopped down on the carpet to put on his own.

He was soon running again, this time towards the nursery’s door. “Come on, move your big butt!” he called out to his brother, who made a show of slowly standing and reaching for his robe.

“Go put on your robe, first,” he tied the sash primly over his pudgy middle. “Mummy won’t like it if you catch a cold.”

Sherlock stomped his feet all the way to his own bed and put on his robe, not bothering with the sash. He stomped back towards the door, this time grabbing his brother’s hand on his way there.

The younger boy pushed carefully on the door handle and looked into the darkened hallway. Mycroft peered over his brother’s curly head to make sure the coast was clear. Convinced that no one would see them, both brothers broke into a run through the empty hallway and down the spiral staircase.

In a practiced motion, they reached the main hall and hid behind one of the suits of armor that stood against the walls. The boys stayed crouched in the shadows to wait for the bored night guard to pass them and leave the doors to the ballroom unprotected. They didn’t have to wait long until slow footsteps approached and then faded into the distance. As one, they sprinted towards the imposing double doors of the ballroom and pushed on the brass handles. With a heave they pushed the doors open just enough to sneak inside and closed them behind them as silently as possible. The princes looked at each other and smiled. Mission accomplished.

Sherlock walked slowly to the middle of the darkened ballroom, his wide eyes taking everything around him. The room was familiar to him, but in the darkness of the night, mundane objects gained an otherworldly quality. The modest thrones on the wooden stage became looming figures, the draped curtains became magical trees, the pale blue pillars of moonlight that came through the high windows were ruins of an ancient temple.

Mycroft, always of a more practical mind, was going around the ballroom, making sure that every door was closed. He scoffed at his brother’s dazed expression. Being impressed by moonlight was not something he considered befitting of a royal prince.

“Everything is secure,” he informed his brother as he finished his inspection. He was thoroughly ignored.

“Do the magic, do the magic!” Sherlock jumped up and down in excitement. “C’mon, dooo it!”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at his brother’s eagerness. He took a step backwards and pushed back his sleeves, like a magician performing for a rapt audience. Technically, he didn’t need to close his eyes or wiggle his fingers, but he did so anyway. Sherlock squealed with delight.

The air was suddenly very cold around the older prince. There was a stirring in the air, like the very atoms were re-arranging around Mycroft’s hands. That stirring quickly manifested in bright white swirls that danced around his fingers. He brought his hands together and the swirls coalesced into a spinning sphere. Mycroft opened one eye and gave his brother a knowing smile before throwing his hands up. The sphere shot into the air and exploded into a million snowflakes that gently began to fall all around the ballroom.

“Ye _th_!” Sherlock cheered “Woo!”

Mycroft pushed his sleeves back down with a smug smile. “If you liked that, wait until you see this!” 

He grabbed the hem of his robe and stomped his left foot on the marble floor. A clear film of ice started to spread from under his foot to cover the entire ballroom floor.

Sherlock clapped, delighted at his new ice rink. “Wow, Mycroft! I’ve never _th_ een you do that before!” he took a few tentative steps on the icy surface.

“That’s because it’s a new ability, brother mine,” Mycroft refused to call it a _magic trick_. He walked carefully away from the ice and onto the snow that had been amassing near the thrones. “I’ve been practicing it in the bath.”

Sherlock tried to do a twirl and landed on his rear. “Mrs Turner didn’t like that, did _the_ e?” 

Mrs Turner, their long suffering nanny, did not take kindly to any time spent on ‘superfluous’ pastimes - that is, anything other than academic study and physical exercise. Despite her stern demeanor, she had the gift of discretion, and that was why the Queen’s had chosen her to look after her sons.

“She didn’t like the fact that she had to unfreeze the bathtub, no, but Mummy said not to worry.” 

“That’s why _th_ _e_ e was carrying all that boiling water into the bathroom! I thought _the_ e was trying to make Mycroft _th_ oup. Yuck!” Sherlock pulled a face as he slid towards his brother.

He stepped onto the snow and promptly kneeled on it. He started pushing the snow around him into a ball with his bare hands. “Let’ _th_ build our client!” he said.

“Client?”

“Yes, _th_ _e_ e’ll come to our detective agency to _th_ olve the murder of her husband!”

“Detectives again?” Mycroft kneeled beside his brother and took a pair of gloves from the pocket of his robe. He offered them to Sherlock who quickly put them on his reddening hands.

“Yea _th_ , why?”

“It’s always a detective agency!” Mycroft complained “Why can’t we be knights, for once? To slay dragons and save entire villages!”

“Becau _th_ this is more fun!” the younger prince argued, working on the second tier of his snowman. Mycroft helped with the finer details, conjuring two ice shards for arms and buttons made out of ice cubes. He was close enough to his brother to hear him mumble, “And I don’t know how to build dragons…”

Silence fell as the boys worked on their snowman. Sherlock rolled a large snowball and put it on the body he had built, giving their client a head. He poked two holes with his finger to make the eyes. After some consideration, he decided to draw a large smile on their client’s face.

He brushed his hands on his robe and stood back to admire his work. Mycroft stood beside him with his arms crossed.

“Hm… What if I…” he waved a hand and their client acquired a lopsided skirt made of clear ice and a snowy hairdo in the rough shape of a bun.

Mycroft’s artwork received a burst of laughter from Sherlock. “Just like Mrs Turner!”

“She can be our client!” Mycroft suggested as he knelt behind the snow-woman and grabbed her icy arms. “Oh, detective Sherlock! You must help me catch my husband’s murderer!” he pleaded in a squeaky voice, waving her arms up and down for added effect. “Also, eat your carrots!”

“No!” Sherlock giggled. “ _The_ e’s not our client! _The_ e’s no fun!”

Mycroft peeked over the snow-woman’s head. “Who is she, then?”

The younger prince scrunched his nose in deep thought. “ _Th_ _e_ e’s Mrs… Hudson! _The_ e’s very rich and owns a lot of hou _th_ es. Not pala _th_ es!” Sherlock had recently discovered the concept of property ownership and now incorporated it into every playtime.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in pretend annoyance and hid behind the newly named Mrs Hudson. 

“Great detective! You need to help me!” Mrs Hudson had the same squeaky voice as Mrs Turner “My rich husband has been murdered! A… a sea-lion bit off his head and ran away into the sea.”

Sherlock put his hands on his hips and declared, “Do not worry, Mrs Hudson, I will bring that evil _th_ ea-lion to justice! Do you want to come with me?”

Mrs Hudson waved her icy arms, “Oh, no dear, not with my hip. I’ll stay in the palace and have a cup of tea.”

“That’s alright.” Sherlock said kindly “Our _thi_ p is small, anyway.”

“Our ship?” Mrs Hudson replied with Mycroft’s voice.

“Mine and Redbeard’s! I’m the great pirate Yellowbeard and I will _th_ ail to _th_ ea with my crew!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a detective?”

“ _Th_ top interrupting, Mycroft! I’m a pirate detective and we need a _th_ ip!” he pointed his hand at the frozen floor.

Mycroft got up from behind their snow-woman, pushing his hair back from over his eyes. Unlike his brother’s curly black hair, his was straight and almost white. Combined with his fair skin and light blue eyes, it gave him a gelid complexion. _"You could say he was frozen over,"_ one of the nurses had commented when she first met the newborn prince. She was relieved of her duties the next day.

“So now we need a ship _and_ a crew?” Mycroft raised one eyebrow at his brother.

“Just Redbeard!” Sherlock replied, annoyed “We need to find the _th_ ea-lion.” When his brother didn’t reply, he stomped his foot. “You were the one to come up with it!”

Feeling that Sherlock was well on his way towards a temper-tantrum, Mycroft conceded his point. “Alright, alright!” He brought his hands together and held them in front of him. As he spread his hands, white swirls cascaded from between them onto the snowy floor. Slowly a little fishing boat started to come into shape, made entirely out of compacted snow. It didn’t have oars or a sail, but Mycroft assumed Sherlock wouldn’t look too closely at that.

“And Redbeard…” Sherlock crossed his chubby arms in front of him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and waived one finger in a circle. A new snowman materialized inside the boat, but this time it looked closer to a cylinder with a pirate hat than a human shaped form.

Sherlock hugged his brother tightly. “Thank you!” he climbed inside the boat and looked at his crew mate. “Come on Redbeard, we have a job to do!”

The younger prince tied his robe over his pijamas, poked two eyes and a smile into his crewmate face and pointed a hand forward. “To _the_ a!”

Mycroft took his cue and moved his hands up. A snowy wave appeared under the boat and pushed it upwards with a jolt.

Sherlock held onto the side of the boat and giggled. “Here we go!”

The older brother brought his hands in front of him and started to wave them up and down. The snow wave copied his movements, slowly rocking the boat.

Mycroft started to narrate the voyage, as usual. Whenever they used magic to play, Mycroft would devise the scenarios and control them, while Sherlock would immerse himself on the fantasy his brother created for him. “Pirate-detective Sherlock- ”

“-Yellowbeard!”

“-Yellowbeard set off to sea in search of the evil sea-lion,” the older prince continued. He turned gradually on his heel, describing a circle with his outstretched arms. The wave took Sherlock’s boat around the ballroom.

“There were many dangers in the sea, like sharks, seagulls and mermaids.”

Sherlock looked over the edge of the boat, down to his brother. “Where?”

“Wait! I’m setting the stage.” Mycroft scolded.

The younger brother sat back on his boat with a huff. “Never mind Mr Cranky, Redbeard.” He patted his cylinder-shaped crew mate where his shoulder should have been.

Mycroft pretended not to hear him. “There were many dangers, but none so terrible as the dread pirate Blackbeard.”

Sherlock stood up and gasped. “Our enemy! Take out your _th_ word, Redbeard!” He opened his right hand and his brother produced a pirate sword made of clear ice on his palm. His boat started to rock with vigour and Sherlock widened his stance to keep his balance.

At the floor level, Mycroft kept the wave moving about with his left hand, while he produced another boat with his right hand. He took that boat up to Sherlock’s level using another snowy wave.

“There you are, Blackbeard!” Sherlock proclaimed, pointing his dull sword at the empty boat. “Prepare to fight!”

Mycroft moved the waves towards each other until the boats touched lightly and pushed them apart again. 

“Don’t run away from us, Blackbeard!” 

Mycroft moved his left hand in a circle over his head and Sherlock's wave took another lap of the room.

“Redbeard and I are an invin _th_ ilable team!”

“Invincible!” Mycroft corrected. “But will they still win against Blackbeard in a storm?!” he asked his imaginary audience.

He waved both hands up and down and sideways, like a crazed maestro. The waves followed his movements, while the boats lurched on top, eight feet from the ground.

Sherlock squealed with delight and grabbed the boat’s bow with one hand, still pointing his sword with the other “Of course! We will defeat our enemy and find the _th_ ea-lion!”

The boy’s boat kept swinging about as it approached the enemy’s once again. “We will bring justice-” the boat gave a sudden lurch and Redbeard toppled over the edge.

“Redbeard!” Sherlock called out and moved to save his crewmate, losing his balance and falling over himself.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft threw his hands forward to produce a snow hill under his brother. But in his rush he missed his mark and the white magic blast hit Sherlock, knocking him unconscious before he met the floor with a terrible thud. 

Mycroft broke into a run to reach his brother’s inanimate form. He fell to his knees and carefully turned Sherlock on his back. Placing his head gingerly on his lap, Mycroft gave silent thanks when he realized his brother was still breathing. Besides the large bruise already forming above Sherlock’s left eyebrow, Mycroft was shocked to notice that one of the black curls that fell on his brother’s forehead had turned completely white. He touched the single curl, horrified.

What had he done?

“Sherlock!” Mycroft shook his brother by the shoulders but he did not respond. The older prince felt cold tears run down his face. “Sherlock, I’m sorry! Please, wake up!” Around them, the snow waves were hardening into menacing spikes and sharp icicles were growing from the ceiling.

Mycroft called out in despair “Mummy! Daddy! Someone, help!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-duuuun! As if you don't know what happens next...
> 
> It's more or less a fanon thing that Sherlock had a lisp as a child, so I decided to incorporate it in his lines.  
> You'll notice that it's not a constant thing. Sherlock finds it really annoying to have a speech impediment so he has been working very hard to improve it. Also it makes his lines easier to read if it's not a very serious thing :P


	4. Where The Ice Never Reaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my thanks to CarmillaCarmine for the beta and overall support. Please enjoy!

“Mummy! Daddy! Please!”

Hurried footsteps were heard outside the ballroom. Suddenly, the doors were slammed open and two guards came rushing in, swords at the ready. They stopped in their tracks when they took notice of the frozen landscape before them. 

“My brother! Please help me!” Mycroft cried out.

The boy's anguished plea snapped the guards out of their shock and into action. The oldest one instructed his companion. “Go summon their Majesties! Quick!” 

The younger guard nodded his understanding and ran out to find the King and Queen. He had heard that the prince heir had some sort of power over the elements, but never would he imagine that the boy could transform an entire ballroom into a winter landscape.

The remaining guard sheathed his sword and approached the boys with caution, displaying his open hands in front of him. He knew little about how magic worked, but he knew better than to confront a scared boy that could summon ice shards as big as the ones around him.

“Your Highness, what happened?” he tried to sound as kind as possible, and yet, the sound of his voice made Mycroft hold his brother closer to his chest. “Should I call the physician?”

“That will not be necessary,” the King declared, standing in the doorway. He was still dressed in his day clothes, as he usually worked at his desk well into the night. His calm, measured demeanor was betrayed by his wide eyes and ashen face. 

Mycroft’s head snapped up towards his voice, his cheeks wet with tears. “Daddy, I’m sorry!”

“Mycroft, wh-”

Suddenly, the Queen appeared at her husband’s side, followed by a group of distraught maids. She was still tying her robe around her slight frame when she stopped at the sight of the room. Her face lost all colour when she noticed her sons. 

"Oh no…" The Queen broke into a run towards the princes. The maids were kept from entering the room by the King’s stern glare.

“Mycroft! What did you do?” she demanded of her eldest as she knelt before them.

The King followed the Queen at a careful pace, trying not to slip on the icy floor. “Close the doors and stand guard outside,” he ordered the guard, “Let no one in.”

The guard gave a curt bow and left the room, closing the doors after him.

“I’m sorry, Mummy!” Mycroft repeated, his desperation growing by the minute. His mother motioned to take Sherlock from his grasp, her light blue eyes not meeting Mycroft's pleading gaze. 

“We were playing, but then Sherlock fell, and I tried to save him, and I hit him with the magic instead - but it was an accident!” he explained in a rush, transferring his brother into his mother’s arms. “He won’t wake up!”

The Queen brushed a careful hand over Sherlock’s bruised forehead. “He’s ice cold!” She looked up at the King, anguished. 

The King stood over his family, deep in thought. After a few moments he muttered. “I know where we have to go.”

He turned on his heel and opened the doors once again. In the main hall, a small crowd of the palace’s staff had gathered, kept away from the doors by the sergeant and three other soldiers. All fell silent at the sight of the King of Londondalle.

“Fetch the Queen’s cloak and mine,” he barked at the maids. They curtsied nervously and ran to comply with the order. 

Next, he addressed Mrs Turner, who was standing a few feet away from the crowd. 

“Bring me Mycroft’s coat and a blanket, quick.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” she answered in a somber tone.

Finally, he told the sergeant, “Ready both our horses. We leave at once.”

“Yes, your Majesty. I shall have a squadron escort you.”

“No,” the King replied, leaving no room for argument. “We’ll go alone.”

The sergeant tried not to let his surprise show. “Y-yes, your Majesty. As you wish.”

The horses were quickly saddled and brought to the front gates. The King put on his woolen cloak and mounted his horse, a steel-gray stallion. He waited silently while the maids put the Queen’s cloak on her shoulders and tied it for her, since she refused to let go of Sherlock, unconscious in her arms.

Mrs Turner waited for the maids to step back and handed the Queen a thick orange blanket to cover Sherlock with. Then she knelt in front of Mycroft, who was clinging to his mother’s side. The young prince did not raise his eyes from the floor while his nanny guided his pudgy arms through the coat. 

He stole a glance at Mrs Turner’s face when she was buttoning his coat. Her eyes met his and held for a moment. Her face was unreadable as always, but her brown eyes seemed a little warmer than usual. She touched her knuckle to his chin and stood up, disappearing behind the crowd of servants in the main hall.

“Mycroft,” the King called out.

Mycroft felt his already tense stomach constrict even further. “Yes, Daddy?”

His father held out his hand and Mycroft gulped. Meekly, he left the relative safety of her mother’s side and stepped forward. A soldier helped him up and sat him in front of the King.

“Where are we going?” asked the Queen after she had mounted her own horse. Sherlock, wrapped in his orange blanket, stood out in sharp contrast against the queen’s black cloak.

“I’ve read about this,” the King explained as they led their horses through the Palace’s gates. “If Sherlock has been… frozen by Mycroft’s magic, we need to melt it." 

It struck Mycroft deeply to hear what he had done so clinically summarized. He was sharply aware of how careless he had been with his magic, and how his carelessness had hurt his brother. To hear his father say it out loud made the damage sound more definite.

If only he had ignored Sherlock and stayed in bed, his brother would have been safe. He was the older brother, he was supposed to be the sensible one. Why had he given in?

Mycroft felt his eyes burn, threatening a new wave of tears. He stared ahead and grasped the horse’s saddle as hard as he could to try and stop those tears from falling. The stallion neighed his discomfort when it felt a steady stream of ice cold air pass through either side of his flank. Mycroft looked down when he noticed the cold air as well. Swirls of freezing mist were tumbling from his own hands to the ground, leaving a trail of frost on the cobbled streets. Both his parents pretended not to notice.

The Queen broke the silence when they approached the town’s edge. “How are we going to melt the magic?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

“Go to the place where the ice never reaches,” the King recited. “They may be able to help.”

“Who?” The Queen was becoming irritated by her husband’s secrecy. The freezing mist fell more heavily from Mycroft’s hands.

The King kept his gaze forward. “You’ll see. Just hold him close.”

He spurred his horse into a gallop into the dark forest. The Queen held her son tightly to her chest and raced after him.

-

John woke with a start when his head fell forward. He sniffled and rubbed his tired eyes with a gloved hand. His other hand kept a light hold on Harry’s reins, mostly for appearance’s sake. He knew the reindeer had learned the path back to the ice harverster’s cabins and would lead them there without any guidance from John, but he didn’t want to look like he wasn’t in control of his own sled.

He stifled a yawn and looked up at the starry sky. In front of him, Harry kept a steady pace through the dark forest. The way back to the cabins was long, and it was made longer still when one’s means of transportation was powered by a reindeer calf. Everyone would already be in bed when they arrive…

The quiet was suddenly cut by hoofsteps, quickly growing louder. John had only time to sit up when two horses galloped past his sled in the opposite direction, up the mountain. One of the horses left a misty trail that fell softly on the grass they trode, freezing it.

“Ice…?” John’s curiosity was peaked. He pulled on Harry’s lead, signaling her to stop.

Mr Murray probably wouldn’t mind if he got home a little bit later… Without losing a moment, he jumped out of the sled, released Harry and jumped on her back.

“Come on, Harry! After them!” He turned the reindeer around to follow the horses. Harry broke into a gallop, excited by John’s tone of voice. They followed the frosty trail further into the forest.

-

John found the two horses alone, tied to a moss covered tree stump and grazing idly on the stunted vegetation. They were well groomed, he noticed, with beautiful leather saddles and shiny brass stirrups. Their owners were probably very rich...

He dismounted his reindeer and looked around. The trail of frosted grass led past the horses and through a narrow path between dark, volcanic rocks. He could hear the hushed tones of adult voices - a man and a woman's - further into the path, interspaced with the sound of air rushing out, like the breath of some great beast. 

It would be best to remain undetected, John decided. He gestured Harry to follow him and went around the dark rocks, looking for a way to gain higher ground. He soon found a slanted boulder that provided a steep ramp for them to climb.

The top of the rocks was smoothed by thousands of years of wind and snow, made smoother still by patches of sleet and wet moss. John made his way forward very carefully, trying not to slip and give away his presence. His heart thumped in his chest and his veins sang with the rush of adrenaline. He smiled to himself. Alone with Harry in the cold dark forest, chasing after strangers in mysterious places, he realized there was nowhere he rather be. 

Harry, provided with twice the number of legs as John, had no trouble navigating the slippery rocks. John had to grab her by the hair on her neck to keep her from charging forward into the unknown.

The edge of the outcrop was littered with unusually round rocks and a few scattered bushes. John dropped to a crouch as he approached it and took cover behind one of the rocks. He craned his neck to peep at the valley below.

From his vantage point he could see how the narrow path opened into a small clearing, surrounded by a wall of dark stone. The ground was covered by a thick mantle of deep green moss interspaced by cracks that spewed a steady flow of steam into the air. 

Most importantly, John could see two adults covered in long dark cloaks, probably the horse's owners. His eyes widened in surprise when he realized that the frosty trail didn't come from them, but from a boy, about his age, that walked beside the man. The ice didn't stay on the ground for long here, instead it dissolved a few seconds after falling from the boy's hands.

John couldn't make out the faces of the mysterious group, but he could see how tensely they held themselves and how carefully they walked. The man and the boy walked slowly forward, while the woman stopped repeatedly to look behind her, before clutching the orange bundle she held to her chest and rushing after the other two. 

The man motioned them to stop when they reached the middle of the expanse. He cleared his throat at called out in a clear voice. "Hello?" 

The boy flinched and hid by his side. The icy mist continued to pour from his hands, but it disappeared as soon as it touched the ground. 

"Please, I need your help!" the man pleaded with the stone walls. 

The woman looked around the empty space and then turned to the man. John could hear her whisper angrily at him. 

The man ignored her and called out again. "Please, my son…!" 

Suddenly, a mighty rumble was heard and the earth began to tremble. John was knocked on his behind but rushed back upright to look over his cover. He gasped in horror. Dozens of rocks, much like the one he was hiding behind, were rolling towards the people below, who huddled together, powerless to stop them. 

John was about to call out when the rocks stopped short of the group. One by one, they grew arms, legs and a head, crowned by a patch of grass. 

The woman and the boy hid behind the man with a terrified cry, while the man relaxed his stance, like he was expecting this incredible outcome. One of the rock people approached the man and bowed deeply. He said something John couldn't make out and the man answered in the same hushed tone. 

Desperate to understand what they were saying, John planted one foot on rock's smooth side and pushed up, determined on getting as close as possible to the action. 

He was knocked down again when the same rock moved and, like the other rocks below, took a human shape. John gave a startled cry when the creature turned towards him. 

"Hush, I can’t hear!" it admonished him. Its face suddenly lit up when it looked down and realized it wasn't addressing one of its own. "Oh, hello!" it beamed at John. 

The boy was lost for words. "You’re… You’re…!" he stammered. 

"A troll, yes. Nice to meet you, I’m Ella," she held out a large hand "Come one, be polite. What’s your name?" 

John couldn't believe his eyes. An _actual troll_ was standing before him and it wanted to shake his hand! His eyes scanned the fantastical being. Ella wasn't much taller than him. Her entire body was made of grey stone, except for the grassy hair that she wore in a ponytail. Her eyes were much like human eyes, forest green and friendly. Like the trolls below, she had a humped back, short limbs and disproportionately large hands and feet. She wore a tunic made of moss and a necklace that bore several little glowing gems. Her feet were bare, with small patches of grass on her toes. 

When he realized that Ella was still waiting for him to introduce himself, John stood up and shook her stony hand. It was surprisingly warm to his touch. 

He cleared his throat and said. "I’m John, John Watson. And this is Harry." he motioned towards the reindeer, who was hiding behind one of the bushes. "Who are they…?" he pointed at the people in the valley.

"That’s not important right now," she answered, more interested in coaxing Harry towards her. "What are you two doing out here at this hour?" Harry approached the troll carefully and sniffed her toes. 

"We’re working. We’re ice harvesters." John said, puffing out his chest. When that didn't elicit any answer from the troll, he continued, "We, huh, cut ice from the lake and…" 

"I know that!" Ella interrupted, startling Harry. "But why aren’t you home? Won’t your parents be worried?" she turned to John with concern on her rough features. 

"I don’t… My parents are gone," he tried to explain, not meeting her eyes. Sensing his distress, Harry ran towards John and pushed her head under one of his arms.

"You’re all alone? You poor babies!" Ella cried out. "Come here." 

Before he knew it, John and Harry were wrapped in a tight, stony hug. John felt a dull pain blossoming in his chest, like a numb limb waking up.

"You and Harry can come live with us!" Ella decided after she had hugged her fill. The gems in her necklace glowed a little brighter. 

John tried to swallow down the knot in his throat. "Thank you, but we can’t. We have to work really early in the morning…" 

"But you’re still babies! You shouldn’t be working!" Ella cried, outraged. 

"We like working! And Mr Murray needs our help," John argued. He couldn't really explain why, but he felt it was important to reassure the troll of their well-being. "We are learning how to harvest the ice from the lake. We're going to be the best harvesters in all the Kingdom!" 

Ella didn't seem persuaded. She crossed her arms over her chest. "That’s all well and good, but is Mr Murray going to need your help when winter comes along? When it gets too cold and everyone goes back home?" 

The pain in John’s chest flared at her words. He coughed to keep it down. 

"I… huh…I need to learn how to work the ice. They’ll need me, then…" he trailed off. Harry whined her distress and licked his cheek. 

Ella smiled, mollified. "That’s really important to you, isn’t it?" she asked softly. 

When John nodded, she uncrossed her arms and clapped her hands. "Well, you know what? Go help Mr Murray, but come and find us when the season ends." The light was back in her face. "The geysers will keep you warm all through winter. We’ll have barbecues, play games, tell stories... You’ll be part of the family! How does that sound?" She laid a gentle hand on his small shoulder. 

John's dark blue eyes found her green ones. The warmth he found in her gaze made the knot in his throat loosen. 

"That sounds… good. Very good!" he smiled.

"Perfect!" Ella gave a little wiggle of delight. "I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone."

Feeling the excitement, Harry started to hop around them.

"They’re going to love you two!" she beamed at Harry and the reindeer took the cue to lick her cheek as well. "You run back home before it gets too dark, but come visit us soon, alright?"

Ella put a hand on John's back and pushed him gently away from the edge of the outcrop, back towards where he had come from. John let the troll lead him for a few feet before turning around and throwing her arms around her. He let her go as quickly as he had hugged her and ran down the slanted boulder, Harry close behind him. 

-

Mycroft's head snapped up when he heard a cry somewhere up in the trees. His eyes scanned the dark forest that loomed over them, but he could see no signs of movement. He took a shaky breath and let his gaze drop to his feet. A gentle heat was radiating from the ground and warming the soles of his feet. With a startle he realized that there was no more mist sprouting from his hands. Was it because of the trolls?

His attention was brought back to the incredible beings before him. The one currently addressing his father had introduced himself as the Grand Stamford, and Mycroft assumed he was their leader. He wore an intricate mantle made of moss and straw and from his neck hung several necklaces, each with a colourful glowing gem. He held a staff made of twisted wood, topped with another gem, one that shone with all the colours of the rainbow. But what Mycroft found the most incredible were the tiny gold spectacles perched on the Grand Stamford's round nose. How did a troll go about buying spectacles? Was there a troll optician somewhere in the forest? He swallowed a hysterical giggle bubbling in his throat.  
  
"Born with the powers or cursed?" the Grand Stamford asked the King, motioning his staff towards Mycroft. The boy made a valiant effort not to hide behind his father.

“Born with them, and they’re getting stronger.” The King shot an icy glare towards his wife. She only clenched her jaw in answer.

The Grand Stamford nodded solemnly. “I see. But he was not.” He extended an arm towards Sherlock, secure in his mother's tight embrace. She stepped forward and kneeled in front of the troll leader, presenting Sherlock for his inspection.

The troll touched his hand to Sherlock’s forehead and closed his eyes, concentrating deeply. After a few seconds of tense silence, his expression relaxed and he opened his eyes again, smiling at the unconscious boy.

“You were lucky it wasn’t his heart that was struck.” he said, addressing no one in particular. A faint blue glow appeared where the troll’s hand made contact with Sherlock’s forehead. Mycroft made a motion to step forward, alarmed, but he was stopped by the King’s hand on his shoulder.

“The heart is not so easily changed,” The Grand Stamford continued, “But the head can be persuaded.”

He took his hand away and strands of blue light left Sherlock’s forehead, gathering in the troll’s open palm. He pushed his hand upwards and the light sprang up in the air, forming an image of the two brothers as they were playing in the snowy ballroom, just an hour before.

The King stood up straighter, trying to shake away his amazement at the sight before him. “Do what you must.” he told the ancient troll.

The Grand Stamford nodded and raised his staff in the air, pointing the crystal at the flickering image. “I recommend we remove all magic from the young prince’s head, even memories of magic, to be safe.”

With a motion of his wrist, the crystal shone its many colours and the image changed. The princes were now dressed in their winter clothes instead of their pajamas. The walls of the ballroom were snow covered trees and the ceiling was a bright cloudless sky. In a moment, the memory was turned into an idyllic picture of the two brothers playing on a snow-white park.

“But don’t worry, I’ll leave the fun.” The Grand Stamford smiled benevolently at Mycroft. He moved his staff again and the image coalesced into a bright blue sphere. With a downward motion of his free hand the sphere descended slowly on Sherlock and disappeared into his forehead.

With wide eyes, Mycroft saw the colour return to his brother’s cheeks. The younger prince drew a long, contented sigh and relaxed his furrowed brow. The Queen stood up and hugged Sherlock close to her, eyeing the Grand Stamford with gratitude.

“He’ll be okay.” the troll assured her.

Mycroft gathered his courage and spoke up. “Could you… could you take away my…?”

The Grand Stamford understood his question and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, your Highness. But this magic is as part of you as the blood in your veins and the marrow in your bones.” 

He shook his staff again and new images appeared in the air. This time it was the figure of a young man, surrounded by a crowd of people. They watched in awe as the man conjured spinning snowflakes and beautiful icy swirls.

“There is great beauty in your magic. But also great danger.” The icy swirls suddenly grew sharp points that struck the crowd, freezing the ones they pierced. The people that remained turned on the young man and attacked him. Mycroft screamed in terror and hid his face in his father’s cloak. The images disappeared into the air. 

“Fear will be your enemy. You must learn to control your powers.” the Grand Stamford warned the prince. 

Mycroft sniffled as he stepped away from his father again. He was the prince heir of Londondalle, he must rise to the challenge before him. He stood up straight and nodded his agreement.

The King put his hands on his shoulders, protectively, and the Queen caressed his chubby cheek. Her clear blue eyes were full of sadness when she spoke. “We’ll protect him. I’m sure he can learn to control it.”

Mycroft looked up at his mother with a watery smile.

“Until then, we’ll lock the gates.” the King added, already developing a plan. “We’ll reduce the staff and limit Mycroft’s contact with other people. We’ll keep his powers hidden from everyone, even from Sherlock.”

The Queen nodded solemnly and hid her face in Sherlock's neck. 

“Do what you must.” The Grand Stamford bowed deeply, and so did the other trolls.

“Thank you for everything.” the King said, and took his family back to the palace.

And so began the worst years of the princes’ lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always had a bit of an issue with this first scene with the trolls... Firstly, I wanted to give John's backstory a little more context than just "Hey, you're cute, you're mine now". Secondly, I really didn't like how the King and Queen handled Elsa's powers. Mine have some problems between them and although they want to the best for their children, they don't go about it the best way... I wanted to explore this for a bit, so this is where we're taking a darker turn.


	5. A New Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's world is changing and there's nothing he can do to keep that from happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This next chapter was getting a bit too big so I decided to divide it in two. This is a smaller chapter to set the tone for the next one, where, you've guessed it, we'll have another song.  
> I hope you enjoy it!

Sherlock was jolted awake by the sound of Mrs Turner pointedly pushing back the curtains on the nursery’s window. He shut his eyes firmly and burrowed in his bedsheets in preparation against her usual orders to get up and stop laying about and some other nonsense about early birds and worms.

When no such instructions were heard - or anything else for that matter - Sherlock pried one eye open. Gentle morning light filled the nursery, bringing to life the warm burgundy of the tapestries on the walls and the bright greens of their canopy beds. The floor was littered with the usual assortment of wooden toys and books, as well as some plant and rock specimens Sherlock had been collecting lately. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the organized chaos of their room.

Mycroft still wasn’t up, either, but Mrs Turner didn’t seem to mind it. She puttered about the nursery, picking up the princes’ toys and folding their discarded clothes, acting like they weren’t even there.

All the better, Sherlock thought with a sigh. He really didn’t feel like getting up today. His head felt funny - a bit empty, like his brain was sloshing around in his head. Maybe he was sick? He raised his hand to his forehead, like he’d seen Mrs Turner and his mother do when he had a fever, but recoiled with a yelp when he touched a painful bump above his right eyebrow. He prodded the tender bruise with his fingers, trying to remember when and where he had bumped his head. When nothing came to mind he went through the previous day's events, like Mycroft had taught him to do whenever he lost something. He had woken up, had breakfast, had his lessons like usual... Then, after dinner, he had played outside with Mycroft - no, inside… Or had they played before dinner? They had played pirates, no, detectives…

He concentrated on the memory but it refused to settle into a solid image. He definitely recalled playing in the snow… He remembered running in the garden, with the cedar trees around him, or were they marble columns...?

“Young Sherlock, good morning.” Mrs Turner interrupted his thoughts. 

She was dressed in a plain brown dress and her graying red hair was pulled back in an impeccable bun. Despite her usual steely appearance, Sherlock noticed some new lines around her lips and dark shadows under her eyes. Maybe she was feeling sick as well…

“Hullo, Mrs Turner,” the young prince yawned.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Mrs Turner, when did I get hurt?” Sherlock asked instead.

The nanny peeled the bedsheets from him and gently pushed him up and off the bed. 

“Oh, you fell off your bed last night, bumped your head, made a big scene…”

“I didn't! I did?” he asked, surprised. Before he knew it, Sherlock was being steered towards the bathroom in his robe and slippers.

“You were half asleep, no wonder you don’t remember.” Mrs Turner opened the bathroom door and pushed him in.

“I really don’t…” Sherlock trailed off when he saw his reflection in the mirror over the wash basin. Above the angry bruise on his forehead he noticed a single curl of white hair nestled among his jet-black curls. He raised his hand to touch it but was cut short when Mrs Turner stepped in front of him to pour water in the basin.

“It won’t do to have you fall off the bed like this,” she carried on, “maybe it was too early for a big boy bed. We’ll put back the rail guards and-”

“No!” he interrupted, “I’m ok, never mind!” and set about his morning routine in earnest, like a big boy deserving of a big boy bed.

-

It was only when he was sitting on his bed again that Sherlock realized that Mycroft's bed was empty.

“Where’ _th_ Mycroft?” Sherlock asked while Mrs Turner buttoned his cuffs.

She turned his head forward with a finger on his cheek and set about brushing his hair. They had an ongoing war, Mrs Turner and his hair. Sherlock didn’t know why she insisted on trying to tame his curls into something 'presentable' every morning, but he supposed that she would come to her senses some day. 

“He left early to accompany the King on business,” she answered, matter-of-factly. The lines around her lips looked deeper than before.

“Really? That _th_ ounds boring.” Sherlock was relieved he wasn’t dragged along to some dull event, but he was a little disappointed to have been left behind.

Mrs Turned gave up her efforts and put down the hairbrush a sigh.

“Well, he is the prince heir, he needs to learn how to rule the Kingdom.” She stood up from her chair and put away Sherlock’s towel and slippers. “Good news is, you’ll have breakfast with your lady mother today.”

“Really? Cool!” Sherlock's eyes brightened with excitement. He usually only shared dinner with his parents and this was a welcome change to his day. The boy ignored Mrs Turner sound of disapproval at the colloquialism and jumped from the bed, making sure to ruffle his still damp curls before reaching for the door.

“Come on, then!” the prince urged her. Not giving her time to answer, Sherlock sprinted out the door and into the hallway.

“No running indoors!” his nanny called after him.

-

Sherlock found his mother already sitting at the table in the Breakfast Room. She had her copper brown hair tied in a complicated braid around her head and wore her purple shawl over a dark blue dress. She was talking hurriedly with one of her maids when Sherlock and Mrs Turner entered the room, but the conversation was cut short as soon as Sherlock reached his mother’s side. The maid stepped aside quietly, her eyes never leaving the young prince.

“Good morning, Mummy.” Sherlock greeted the Queen and kissed her offered cheek. He found the same dark shadows under his mother’s eyes, but unlike Mrs Turner, the Queen looked happy to see him.

She kissed the top of his head in return. “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?” She made a motion to sweep back the curls from his forehead but Sherlock quickly retreated to his seat before his mother could notice his bruise.

“Oh, yeah, I slept fine,” he assured her, climbing his chair. He waited patiently while Mrs Turner pushed his chair forward and tucked his napkin under his chin.

“What do you say?” the Queen nudged him.

“Thank you, Mrs Turner,” he recited meekly. 

“Good boy.” The Queen smiled and began her meal. She took a bread roll and buttered it lightly before addressing her son again. “As you know, Mycroft’s birthday is a month from now.”

Sherlock nodded “Yeah, and mine’ _th_ in three months and…” he took a bite of his scrambled eggs “and twelve day _th_!”

“Yes, that’s right,” she agreed, “but Mycroft is turning ten years-old, and that’s a very important thing.”

“Why?” the young prince asked around a mouthful of eggs.

“Because he’s going to be a little older, and he’ll need to really start learning how to be king, when the time comes.”

“Why?”

The Queen began to tense her shoulders, but her smile stayed fixed on her lips. “Because he’s the prince heir, and that’s his duty. He’ll be busy with new lessons and some new chores.” 

“Why?”

“Because...” she let out a frustrated sigh and tried again “Sherlock, that’s just the way things are.”

“What about me?” Sherlock put down his fork. This conversation was making his stomach feel heavy and he didn’t feel like eating anymore.

The Queen’s smile began to fray at the edges. “You’re becoming a big boy too, and because you are _both_ growing up, we are giving each of you a separate room.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why? I don’t want to be all by my _th_ elf!”

His mother put down her silverware as well. “You will still sleep in the nursery, and Mrs Turner will still be there with you,” she looked pleadingly at the nanny, sitting to Sherlock’s right. Mrs Turner kept her hands folded on her lap and pursed her thin lips tighter.

“But Mycroft-” 

The Queen interrupted him. “You’ll still see Mycroft during the day, after your lessons.”

“He won’t be in the _tht_ udy room either?!” Sherlock felt his eyes grow warm with impending tears. Why did they want to take Mycroft away from him?

His mother clenched her jaw and took a deep breath before arguing, “I just told you, he’ll have different lessons, you’ll get distracted if-”

“No! I don’t like it!” he protested, crossing his arms.

“It’s decided, Sherlock.” The Queen’s scowl left no room for argument. 

“No!” he yelled, throwing his spoon on the floor. Tears fell freely down his pink cheeks. “That’s _th_ tupid! You’re all _th_ tupid!” he cried.

“Enough!” the Queen rose up, “Go to your room! Now!”

Keeping her eyes on her charge, Mrs Turner grabbed a protesting Sherlock by the wrist and led him back to the nursery while he cried his discontent for the whole Palace to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say thanks to all the wonderful people who have been leaving kudos and writing such nice comments! ❤️ I love you all!


	6. Do You Want To Solve A Murder?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you want to solve a murder? Or maybe get a song stuck in your head for the next week?  
> The princes are growing up and adjusting to their life in the Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, this chapter is finished. Man, was this was hard work to write... I hope the sheer length of it will compensate for my delay. :) Many thanks to CarmillaCarmine for the beta and support!

Despite Sherlock’s vigorous protests, the Queen’s orders were executed that same day. The young prince stood desolately by Mrs Turner's side while Mycroft’s belongings were taken from the nursery to a room further down the hallway. After the last piece of furniture had been moved, Sherlock fell into a temper tantrum so terrible he threw himself screaming onto his bed and there he stayed until the next day.

The following weeks brought deep changes to the Palace life as well. The gates were shut and additional guards were posted along the walls. Inside the Palace, the staff was reduced to a bare minimum and, to compensate for the lack of maids, the East Wing was closed off, its windows shuttered and the furniture covered in sheets. There were no more dinner parties or guests for tea, and all official business was done in the Town Hall.

Of all the staff Sherlock had come to know, only Mrs Turner, the cook and the butler remained. The few remaining maids and footmen were replaced with new people, who stood nervously in the shadows, waiting for their orders.

Even Sherlock's family was behaving differently. His father immersed himself in his books. He would spend most of his days in his study, buried in dusty tomes. Sometimes, he would leave the Palace for days and return with a crate full of new books and with wistful eyes. His mother became quiet and irritable. Her patience for Sherlock's never ending stream of questions was gone and replaced with a sharp " _because I said so_ ". Even Mycroft would ignore him most of the little time they spent together. He refused any invitation to play with downcast eyes and a mumbled excuse, and any attempt to get his attention at meal time (by means of increasingly more offensive taunts or flung objects) usually ended in Sherlock being grounded to his room.

If this is what happened when people grew up, Sherlock hoped he never did.

-

A few days after Mycroft’s tenth birthday, Sherlock found himself extremely bored. It was Mrs Turner day off and the King and Queen were nowhere to be found. Mycroft disappeared inside his room after breakfast, claiming the need to finish reading his book. Sherlock remembered his mother had told him that Mycroft had new obligations now, that he mustn't bother him, but Sherlock hoped he could persuade his brother to come and play for a little while, just like they used to.

The young prince walked the empty hall with some trepidation and knocked on his brother’s closed door. 

“Mycroft?” he called out, hopefully. When no answer came, he knocked again, more forcefully this time. Maybe Mycroft hadn’t heard him. He called out to his brother again, this time in song.

_“Do you want to tholve a murder?_

_Come on, leth's investigate!_

_I never thee you anymore,_

_Come out the door!_

_It'th like you've gone away!”_ Sherlock complained, balling his fists beside him.

He understood that his brother had to study hard to become king, but he still had more than enough time to prepare. Plus, Mycroft was very smart - he would learn his lessons in no time. He should be allowed to play, too. To play with Sherlock, to be precise. 

_“We used to be betht buddieth,_

_But now we’re not!_

_I wish you would tell me why!”_ He pleaded to the closed door. Mycroft would surely hear him if he sang loud enough.

_"Do you want to tholve a murder?”_

An idea suddenly crossed his mind. Mycroft was ten-years-old, already. Maybe he didn’t like playing detectives anymore… They could play something else, Sherlock decided. 

“ _It doesn't have to be a murder..._ ” he sang through the keyhole.

“Go away, Sherlock.” Mycroft distant voice cut through his song. The coldness in his tone left no room for debate.

Sherlock slumped his shoulders, defeated.

“ _Okay, bye…_ ”

He turned away from the closed door and made for the garden. Maybe he could find some new insects to add to his collection…

-

Mycroft stifled a yawn as he turned another page on his Economics textbook. He still had another chapter to go before he could rest. 

A childish giggle rang outside his window, breaking through his concentration. The unabashed joy of the sound pulled on Mycroft's heartstrings and on the corner of his lips. Curious, he stood up from his desk and walked to the window. From his vantage point he could see Sherlock in the garden, playing with a wooden pirate sword. He was running around animatedly, swiping his weapon at the softly falling snowflakes and yelling at invisible enemies.

Mycroft smiled despite himself. Maybe he could take his break now, go outside for a bit. How bad could it be if he went and played with Sherlock for a little while? He’d be careful with his powers…

Suddenly, he noticed that his vision was becoming blurry. Looking at the windowpane, he realized that there was frost climbing steadily up the window, not from the cold weather outside but from his own hands, freezing the windowsill where they touched it. He stepped back from the window, horrified. He didn’t mean to do that at all.

A knock was heard from the door and Mycroft turned around with a start.

“Who is it?” he asked, barely concealing the panic in his voice.

“Mycroft, it’s me,” the King answered. He noticed his son’s troubled face as soon as he walked in.

“What’s wrong?”

“Daddy, I didn’t mean to do it…” he pointed at the frosted window, not daring to move from his spot. “I was just looking outside at the snow and- and... Why did it happen?” He clutched his hands to his chest, trying to hide them away from view.

“It’s alright,” his father reassured him, “I brought you something. ”

He approached his trembling son with care and showed him the small box he had been holding. When Mycroft didn’t move to take the offering, the King opened it to reveal a pair of pristine white leather gloves.

The prince felt his heart lighten with hope. It made so much sense… He let his father slip the gloves onto his hands, mesmerised.

The King put away the box and took his son’s hands in his without hesitating. His brown eyes sparkled with relief when Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed. 

“See? You’re good...” his father smiled at him. He kept his warm hands around his son’s gloved ones and kneeled down in front of him. “Conceal it,” he recited, holding his gaze.

“Don’t feel it.” Mycroft answered

“Don’t let it show.” they finished their mantra in unison.

-

At eleven-years-old, Sherlock had read almost half of all the books in the Palace library. As he grew, so did his thirst for knowledge. He devoured every available tome on Chemistry, Biology and Geology and squirreled away every bit of new knowledge in his prodigious memory.

For all his interest in specific areas of knowledge, he rejected others with a passion. He scoffed at the Politics section of the library, ignored the books on Economics and turned his nose on all fiction that did not include at least one good murder mystery (or, barring that, gripping high-sea adventures).

Mrs Turner had been dismissed as soon as he had turned eight-years-old, sent away with a brilliant letter of recommendation to pursue a new job with the royal family of an allied country. Despite her fixation with boring things like bed-time, proper meals and what constituted an actual toy (which, she insisted, the suits of armour definitely did not), Sherlock had to admit that Mrs Turner’s absence left a large hole in his already unremarkable life. 

Reading had become an escape from his daily routine. Every day he could feel the weight of the Palace walls growing around him as the urge to know the outside world was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. But when he read, his attention was lost inside the books. Every new bit of information became a new brick in his carefully built mental archive - his Mind Palace, he liked to call it, not without some pride. Every new room became a space for his mind to roam free, untethered by inane rules imposed by stupid people.

Besides the books, the Library possessed another source of entertainment. It so happened that its southern window was the only one in the Palace with a partial view of the town's square. Whenever his eyes got tired from reading, Sherlock would lean over the windowsill and watch the town's people go about their day. Confined to the Palace walls as he was, Sherlock treasured that view as a window to a different reality. His racing mind devised names and backstories for the people he could normally see. He liked to imagine what kind of lives they might lead, their goals and struggles. 

The woman from the flower stand (Mrs Murphy, he had named her) was a three-time widower, with a cat allergy. She was currently trying to convince her eldest daughter to marry the grocer across the square, but the girl was actually in love with one of the fishermen in the docks. Mrs Murphy had a difficult relationship with the baker’s wife, Mrs Young, who came in every day to buy yellow roses. Sherlock could see her now, walking briskly through the morning crowd towards the flower stand. 

Halfway across the town square, she bumped into a man walking in the opposite direction. He raised his hand in apology and continued his way. But the way his other hand moved caught Sherlock’s attention.

He furrowed his brow in concentration… Could it be? He followed the man with his eyes as he wandered around the square until he stopped behind a group of people by the fishmonger’s stall. Sherlock saw how the man leaned forward, pretending to inspect the day's catch as his hand dove swiftly inside another man’s pocket and brought back a bag of coin, like a seagull diving for fish.

A pickpocket! Stealing right before his eyes! How incredible was that?! Sherlock jumped up and ran to the door, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Guards! Guards!” he called down the corridor. 

A guard came running to meet him, hand on his sword’s hilt. “Yes, your Highness! What’s wrong?” he asked, slightly out of breath. 

“There’s a pickpocket in town!” Sherlock exclaimed, failing to hide his eager smile.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“A pickpocket!” the prince explained to the dumbfounded man, “I just saw him stealing from a man by the fishmonger’s stand! It’s the second, maybe third time he’s done it, as far as I can see.” 

The guard kept his stunned silence and Sherlock started to feel his temper rise. “You’ll still catch him if you hurry. I can give you a description!” he pointed at the window.

The guard cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Begging your pardon, your Highness," he said, “even if that’s true, I don’t see how a pickpocket should concern you... or me.” 

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the guard. “Aren’t you supposed to defend the Law and Order or some such? I thought that was what guards were for...” 

“We are Palace Guards, sir, we defend the Palace, not the common folk’s pocket.” 

Sherlock really did not appreciate his condescending tone. His eyes scanned the man for a second before he tried again. 

“Well, look at it this way,” he told the guard, “if you catch that dastardly criminal all by yourself, maybe you’ll get a medal. I’m sure that would be enough for your wife to stop sleeping with your neighbor.” 

The guard took a step back and eyed the prince with disbelief. He swallowed visibly before grumbling through his clenched jaw. “I’ll pass on the information...” he said, and turned back towards his post.

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at the guard’s retreating back but he almost bit it off when a scream broke through the silence. Sherlock ran back towards the window, following the sound. His eyes widened like saucers at what he saw. In the town square, the crowd had parted to make space for two figures, locked in a fight. One of them was the pickpocket and the other was a blond boy, around Mycroft’s age, who was trying to pin down the thief. Even more surprising, there was a reindeer taking part in the fight, trying to bite the man’s ankles. 

Nervous energy sang through Sherlock’s limbs and he grabbed at the windowsill in irritation. If only he wasn’t stuck inside the Palace, if only he could open the gates and run into the town square, he would help the boy win the fight. They’d return everything the pickpocket had stolen and the people would-

His thoughts were interrupted by a shrill whistle, blown by one of three guards rushing through the crowd. The pickpocket seized the moment to weasel away from the boy’s grasp and escape at an impressive speed. Not losing a beat, the boy, the reindeer and the guards ran after the pickpocket and out of Sherlock’s line of sight.

Sherlock screamed in frustration. Damn this Palace and damn these walls! If only he was a little higher up, he could see over the tower...

He put his head out of the window and looked up. A smile blossomed on his lips. If he stepped on the ledge maybe he could reach the eave and climb onto the roof. After a moment of consideration, Sherlock pushed up a chair by the window and stepped up on the windowsill. He resolutely ignored the seventeen feet drop in front of him and reached for the roof. The eave was just a few inches away from his fingertips, so he took a deep breath and jumped up. He managed to grab the roof’s edge but there he encountered a problem. Pushing himself up was a lot harder than anticipated. Sherlock’s arms were short and thin, without enough strength to push his skinny body up.

He felt his heartbeat hammer in his ears and sweat pool on his brow as he dangled from the roof. Not to be deterred, Sherlock decided to swing his legs back and forth, gaining enough momentum to push his feet against the Palace wall. Slowly but steadily, he was able to take enough steps upwards to push, first his elbows and then his torso, over the roof. From there it was easy work to push one leg up and then the other.

Safely on the roof, Sherlock rolled onto his back to regain his breath. A giggle bubbled from his throat before he could help it. He suddenly imagined his mother’s face, looking up from the courtyard at the Palace's front and seeing footprints on the walls. That would get him grounded for a week, at least!

As soon as he got his breath back, Sherlock stood up on the roof and smiled. From there he could see all of the town, with its smoking chimneys and mismatched roofs, sprawling from the docks to the edge of the forest. There were people, moving, working, living, on every street, taking their boats to the open sea and their cattle out to pasture.

The young prince’s heart grew as he took a breath of fresh air, delighted at his discovery. A new window into the world had been opened for him!

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to spot the people he was looking for. On one of the larger streets stemming from the town square, he spotted the pickpocket, with his hands behind his back, being taken away by the guards. One of the guards had stayed behind, talking to the blond boy. The strange reindeer was standing close behind the boy, nodding at them like it could understand what they were saying. A few moments later the boy and the guard shook hands and parted ways. 

Sherlock drew a long breath as his shoulders relaxed. As happy as he was that the pickpocket had been caught, the outcome had been decidedly anti-climatic. He wished the boy would at least be allowed to take the thief to prison... The boy didn’t look very happy with the outcome, either. He patted the reindeer’s head and mounted it quietly. They made their way through the crowded streets and disappeared from Sherlock’s view. The people in the streets continued on with their day, already forgetting what that brave boy had just done.

Sherlock scoffed at their indifference. He’d tell people of what he had seen, and he’d start with Mycroft. 

The prince looked around the roof as he consulted his mental map of the floor directly under it. He navigated the rooftops with confidence until he reached the area above Mycroft’s bedroom. Sitting on the edge, Sherlock looked down and, sure enough, there was a large window below him, opened a few inches to let in the sweet summer air.

“Mycroft! Hey!” he called out. “Mycroft! You have to see this!”

Sherlock smiled as the window opened further and his brother’s white blond head peeked out.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called out to the garden, trying to spot his brother below. 

Sherlock smile turned into a shameless grin. “Up here!” he shouted.

Mycroft looked up, confused. His face became a study of outrage as soon as he saw Sherlock casually sitting on the roof. “What do you think you’re doing?!” he cried.

“Having fun, do you know what that is?” Sherlock teased. He dangled his feet from the roof, but that only seemed to make Mycroft more nervous.

“Get down right now! You’ll break your neck!”

Sherlock ignored his brother’s orders and told him of his discovery. “You’ll never guess how amazing the view is from here! You can see all the way to the docks!” he pointed out into the distance. If only his brother would relax and enjoy himself a little, they could explore this new world together.

“Come up! I’ll get some ropes to lift your fat butt if you need it.” Sherlock smiled to take the edge off the joke.

Mycroft only furrowed his brow further. “I’m not joking, Sherlock. I’ll tell Father if you don’t come down.”

Sherlock scoffed “No, you won’t! I’m going to get you up here and you’ll see how brilliant this is. I just saw a-”

Mycroft stepped back inside and closed his window with a bang. Not backing down, Sherlock turned around and stretched enough to lightly kick the top of his brother’s window. 

“Mycroft!” he kicked again. There was no answer, but he could bet his brother was standing by the window, listening in. Sherlock sat back up again and sang, loud and clear.

“ _Do you want to solve a murder?_

_Or jump around on the rooftops?”_

Sherlock chanced a glance downwards, but the window remained resolutely closed. Honestly, how could someone so young act like such an old man? 

_“All of my offers have been declined,_

_So I’m building a new_

_Palace in my mind!”_

There was a faint ringing of the bell Mycroft used to call the maid. Sherlock realized his brother was making good on his promise to out him. Not willing to lose his new discovery, he made his way back to the Library window and lowered himself back inside. If Mycroft heard him outside his door, safely under the roof, maybe he wouldn’t tell their Father. 

The prince hit the ground with a huff and ran into the hallway until he reached his brother’s room. He threw himself down on the cold marble floor and put his feet up against Mycroft’s door with a flourish. His parents were nowhere in sight. Nobody had seen him jump through the window. 

He’d won. Take that, Mycroft. 

Sherlock let his head fall to the side while he tried to catch his breath. From this new perspective from the floor, the deserted hallway looked desolate. The only movement in sight was the dust motes dancing in the bright sunlight and the rocking of the pendulum of the grandfather clock in the corner. 

_“‘Cause It gets a little lonely,”_ Sherlock continued his song, absentmindedly.

_“All these empty rooms,_

_Just watching the hours tick by...”_

He clicked his tongue in time with the clock, entranced by the pendulum’s movement.

The spell was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. The young prince jumped back up and ran back towards his room, closing the door after him.

-

When the King and Queen entered Mycroft’s bedroom, they found their eldest pacing back and forth, clearly agitated.

They exchanged a concerned look before the Queen stepped forward. “Mycroft, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s… It’s Sherlock, he’s out of control!” Mycroft answered, wringing his hands. He made another lap back to the window.

“Sherlock?” his father asked, alarmed. “Is he hurt?”

“No, but he’s- he’s...” Mycroft hesitated, passing them on his way back to the door.

“He’s fine.” his father interrupted with forced casualness. “Don’t worry about him. You know how bored he gets, sometimes.”

“This is not ‘bored’, Father!” Mycroft countered, turning around to face his parents, “this is -” He threw down his hands in frustration when a jet of ice sprang from his fingers, hitting the corner of the bedroom with a thud. The wall and part of the carpet were instantly frozen.

The Queen covered her mouth to hold her shocked gasp.

Mycroft stood motionless, too terrified to move. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was wearing his gloves. The gloves were supposed to work.

He raised his ice blue eyes to his anxious parents. “I didn’t mean to do it… It’s- it’s getting stronger...” he stammered.

“Getting upset only makes it worse.” the King explained with an even voice and took a step towards him.

“No, don’t touch me! I don’t want to hurt you!” Mycroft cried, folding his hands over his chest. 

“Sweetheart…” his mother began.

“Leave, please!” Mycroft let his head fall forward in shame, trying to hide his watery eyes. “Please...!” he begged. 

She nodded and left quietly, the King close behind her. 

-

Sherlock peeked out of his door when he heard footsteps leaving Mycroft’s room. The fact that they didn’t turn towards his own bedroom was a good sign he wasn’t in trouble. Or maybe they were going to talk in private to decide on a special punishment… Sherlock was too anxious about it to wait quietly for his fate. He decided to climb back up on the roof, this time through his bedroom window, and listen in on his parents.

As soon as he was on the roof, he heard a door being slammed somewhere down the hall. He ran across the rooftops as fast as he could until he reached his parent’s bedroom window. As he approached, he could hear his mother’s urgent tones. 

“This can’t go on, we have to do something!” she said. 

Sherlock kneeled on the roof, trying to peer through the window, but the angle was too steep to see. He was keenly aware that his wasn’t a conversation for his ears, but his curiosity was stronger than his sense of decorum. Besides, if he was being punished, he should be the first to know.

“Like what?!” the King asked angrily. “We’ve tried everything we could think of.”

“There must be an answer in those books of yours. Look again!”

“Don’t you think I’ve read them more than once? More than ten, twenty times?” His father was growing more agitated by the second. Sherlock didn’t think he had ever heard him like this. Had he misbehaved that badly? 

“Well, you need to read them again!” the Queen insisted “This is tearing our family apart!”

“You’d know.” 

There was a loaded silence, before the Queen spoke in a low, menacing tone. “What did you just say?” 

Sherlock recoiled instinctively. He had to force himself to lean back down in order to keep listening. 

“Admit it, this is your doing,” the King continued despite his wife’s sounds of protest. “He was born like this, ice cold. Contaminated by a frozen heart, that’s the only possible explanation-”

“A broken heart, Victor,” she interrupted, “my own brother, and you-”

She was cut off by a loud thud - books thrown to the ground, Sherlock deduced. He suddenly realised that the conversation wasn't about him, anymore.

“You knew damn well about Rudy and me before we got married!” the King spat.

The Queen answered in kind. “That’s right, before we got married. Us!” she yelled. There was a moment of silence before she continued in a more subdued tone, “I thought you were done, you gave me your word. And there I was, pregnant with your first-born and you still fell into bed with him!”

“I said I was sorry!” There was a hint of desperation in the King’s voice. “I made one mistake, one single mistake. But I sent him away…” His voice had lowered into an angry whisper and Sherlock had to strain to hear him. “I apologized and I’ve been apologizing every day since then. But your heart froze... and I don’t think there is anything I can do to melt it.”

After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock heard the soft click of a door opening and closing. To his ears it sounded more terrible than the violent slam from before. 

He wiped at his wet eyes. For the first time in his life, Sherlock was sorry to have indulged in his curiosity. He swallowed around the knot in his throat and backed off from the roof’s edge, back to the safety of the rooftop. 

-

“Hey!” 

There was something wet and cold nudging his knee. 

“Hey! Pst!” the voice insisted.

Sherlock opened his bleary eyes and squinted against the bright sunshine. He looked down at his legs to realize he was being poked with a wet mop. And that wet mop was being wielded by a man, struggling to reach him from below the roof’s edge.

The price sat upright with a start but a painful crick in his neck quickly made him regret his decision. He winced and cursed under his breath. The man gave a nervous chuckle as he pulled his mop back under the edge.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re the prince, aren’t you?” the man asked. 

Looking at him more carefully, Sherlock realized that the man was a few years younger than him - nineteen, if he had to guess. His hair was mousy-brown and styled into a very unfortunate buzzcut. His features, although burned from the sun, telegraphed a fragile health. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks sallow and he was already missing a few teeth.

“And you are?” Sherlock ignored the man’s question and sat more comfortably on the roof’s ridge, propping up the collar of his woolen coat against the chill morning air. 

The man disappeared from view for a few seconds before a series of squeaking noises brought him jolting upwards over the roof. He rested his forearms casually on the tiles and gave Sherlock a sly grin. “They call me ‘The Wig’.” he said, slightly out of breath.

Sherlock smiled at the blatant lie. “No, they don’t.”

Surprise flashed briefly in the man’s eyes. “They call me Wiggy,” he tried again.

“Nope…”

“Uh…” The man’s eyes danced over Sherlock’s face, feeling cornered. He then slumped his shoulders in defeat. “Billy. I’m Billy Wiggins.”

Sherlock smiled like the cat who caught the canary. “Hello, Billy. Nice to meet you.”

Billy coughed awkwardly. “I’m sorry to wake you up, your princeness. But what are you doing up here? You are the prince, right? The younger one?” he asked again.

“I am…” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Billy. “Why?” he asked, burying his cold hands under his armpits.

“No reason, sir. I'm just surprised to see you, is all.” Billy explained. “My old man used to work at the Palace when you was little, you see? Used to tell us stories about how you and your brother would run around the Palace, gettin’ in all kinds of trouble.” He flashed a conspiratorial smile at the prince, but it melted quickly when confronted with Sherlock’s stony look. “Then one day, he was sent home with a bag of money, sayin’ they was closing down the gates and that they wouldn’t be needin’ a big staff no more.”

Sherlock’s attention became laser focused on the man before him. This accidental encounter could be the key to unlock the biggest mystery of his life. Billy shuffled uncomfortably under the prince’s intense gaze.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward. “Why did they close the gates?”

Billy’s gaze dropped to his own dirty hands. “He never said. He only said they had given ‘im all that money to keep quiet and that he would be in real trouble if he opened his mouth.”

“Come on, Billy…” Sherlock gave him his most winning smile. “If money is the issue here, I can pay you handsomely for the information. You could go ask your father again. No one has to know I sent you...” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone.

Billy smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, your princeliness, but he’s dead. Spent all that extra money on beer and whores. Uh… those are-”

“I know what they are!”

“Yes, sir, beggin’ your pardon, sir. His liver quit on ’im ten years ago and he left us and my mum to fend for ourselves...” Billy trailed off.

The prince grabbed at his hair in frustration. Another dead end… He lowered his hands to his face and groaned quietly.

Billy’s voice cut through Sherlock’s dark thoughts. “Excuse me, prince…” he hesitated.

“Sherlock,” the prince grumbled into his hands.

“Yes, Prince Sherlock… If you don’t mind me askin’...” he trailed off. 

Sherlock lowered his hands to give him an annoyed look. “What?”

Billy pointed his finger tentatively at the space between Sherlock and the chimney and the prince tilted his head in assent.

The younger man hoisted a length of rope over the roof and tied it in a complicated knot. Only when he was happy with his handiwork did he pushed on his hands to climb onto the roof. _Standing on a window washer’s pulley,_ Sherlock thought with a sigh, _obvious._

Billy’s body was as gaunt as his face, his limbs long and wiry. For someone who supposedly worked with water and soap all day, he didn’t smell like he gave his body the same treatment as his windows. He sat next to Sherlock, a respectful couple of feet away from the prince. 

Both young men sat in silence for a few moments, watching the morning sun dance over the ocean before them. Billy scratched his thigh and Sherlock sighed again.

“If you don’t mind me askin’, sir...” Billy tried again, more quietly this time. “What happened to your brother?”

Sherlock glanced at him. “What do you know?”

“It’s that… I’ve been washing the windows of this palace for the last three years and I’ve never seen the prince heir,” he explained in a rush “I almost thought that he was gone from the Palace, or dead, or somethin’. That’s why they’d closed the gates and sent my old man home.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “Nope, we’ve been here the whole time, him and me. Well, me, at least.” He thought briefly about how ill advised it probably was to confide in some window washer he had just met, but he was too frustrated to really care. What was there to lose, really?

“I don’t see my brother often enough to be sure he still lives here.” 

Billy gave a low whistle. “That sounds hard… So you never leave the Palace? Ever?”

“Never… But not for lack of trying.” he said, resting his elbows on his bent knees. “The guards are always expecting me whenever I try to get out. It’s like they know what I'm going to do…” Sherlock would not admit it to his new-found acquaintance, but he had the nagging suspicion Mycroft was watching him, somehow, and that he kept tipping off the guards whenever he devised an escape plan.

“That’s not right... “ Billy declared, scratching his stomach absentmindedly. “They shouldn’t keep a bloke - I mean, a young man like you away from the world. How do you manage?” he asked.

“I have no idea…” Sherlock admitted and let his head fall on his forearms. “I’ve read every book in the library, catalogued every plant and insect in the garden, played every piece of music I know until I can’t hear it any longer. They won’t even let me in the kitchen anymore since the pig’s tongue debacle…” he lamented, “I’m so bored I could die.”

Billy looked thoughtful for a moment as he scratched his chin. Sherlock realized Billy scratched himself a lot. 

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it…” the window washer began, “I’ve got something 'ere that might make it a bit easier on you.” He reached for something in his pocket and presented it to the prince. He opened his hand to reveal a small glass bottle.

“What’s that?” Sherlock eyed the object in Billy’s palm with distrust. 

“A present… Some chemical help, if you will,” the window washer explained when Sherlock took the offered vial. “I’m a bit of a chemist myself.” He puffed out his chest with pride.

“A chemist window washer?” the price scoffed. “That’s reassuring… What’s it supposed to do?”

Sherlock held the object against the sunlight. Inside the clear glass he could see a small portion of a crystalline powder, white like fresh fallen snow. 

Billy ignored the jibe “Take it, you’ll see. The first one’s on me.” With that, he got up slowly and began his careful descent back to the edge of the roof. “Come see me if you want to buy some more, afterwards.”

Sherlock gave the bottle a final wary look before hiding it in his coat pocket. “How do I know this won’t just kill me?” he called out to Billy, already lowering himself on his pulley.

The window washer gave the prince a shrewd smile and disappeared under the roof’s edge. “What do you 'ave to lose?” he asked, already out of view.

Sherlock dug his hand in his pocket and held the bottle tightly in his palm. _What indeed?_

The prince remained on the rooftop for a few more minutes, contemplating the endless expanse of ocean before him. The sky was clear blue and the sea was calm. A cool breeze caressed his face and played with his curls. From his vantage point he could see a scattering of little fishing boats and larger sailboats beyond the bay, taking advantage of the mild autumn weather. 

Sherlock stood up with a start. How could he forget! The Andromeda would already be waiting for her royal passengers in the docks, her burgundy sails unfurled against the gentle breeze.

With practiced ease, he climbed down the roof and jumped through his bedroom window onto the floor. A few long strides had him walking down the hallway towards his parents’ bedroom. He maneuvered gracefully around the few footmen that carried several items of luggage down the corridor. Out of habit, his steps slowed by Mycroft’s door, but did not stop.

Moving on, Sherlock found the King and Queen in their room, donning their coats and hats. As soon as she noticed her son, the Queen smiled and opened her arms. Sherlock walked silently into her hug.

“You’re leaving? Actually leaving?” he asked, burying his face in her shoulder.

He could feel his mother’s arms tightening around him. “Yes, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this.”

Sherlock let himself be held for a few more seconds before stepping back. “I didn’t think you meant it.” he said, sulkily.

The Queen raised one eyebrow with an amused smile. “Why wouldn’t we…? Yes, we’re leaving. We’re leaving now, in fact.”

Sherlock grunted and threw himself on his parents’ bed, covering his eyes with his arms. “It’s official,” he declared to the room, “I’ll have absolutely no one to talk to… I’ll be all alone!” 

He heard his father exasperated sigh somewhere near the door. “We’ll only be gone for two weeks, Sherlock. Besides, you’ll still have Mycroft with you.”

“Hurray for me,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Be nice to your brother.” the Queen admonished, patting his leg.

“I’m not a child anymore, Mummy.”

“I know, sweetheart.” she answered as she left the room. 

Sherlock let himself lie on the bed for a few more seconds before trailing after his parents, already walking down the main stairway. Mycroft was waiting at the foot of the stairs, with a perfect posture and a sombre face.

He gave the King and Queen a short bow as they approached. They did not try to touch him, but smiled kindly nonetheless. 

Mycroft raised his icy blue eyes towards his father. “Do you have to go?” he asked in a subdued tone.

“You’ll be fine, Mycroft.” the King reassured him.

Mycroft carefully blank look betrayed a shred of anxiety. “But what if-” 

“Everything is under control, you can handle this,” the King interrupted. “You’ve trained for this.”

“Yes, but if -”

“Mycroft, listen to me,” his father ordered. His voice took the gravity he normally employed to admonish his ministers. “You are my son, the Crown Prince of Londondalle. You can do this. Are we clear?”

Mycroft raised his chin and schooled his features back into an impassive mask. “Yes, Father.”

Satisfied with the answer, the King gave a short nod and made towards the door. The Queen approached her eldest son and raised her arms as if to hug him, but she quickly lowered them when Mycroft shoulders stiffened in response.

“Take care of your brother, will you?” she asked softly.

“Yes, Mummy.” Mycroft gave her a small smile in return.

“I am _not_ a child!” Sherlock repeated as he climbed down the stairs.

“Yes, yes, we know.” the Queen teased and patted his cheek when he approached them. Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

Sherlock took his mother's arm and walked her to the carriage where his father was already waiting. He stood by the main entrance to wave them goodbye as they drove off. When he turned back to the main hall, Mycroft was already gone.

-

A week after the King and Queen’s departure, Sherlock was summoned to his father’s office. There he found his brother in the company of the Captain of the Royal Guard and a man he didn’t know. A terrible feeling of dread filled his chest when he scanned their faces.

“Mycroft? What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, barely controlling his anxiety. Instead of giving him an answer, his brother directed his attention to the strange man with a tilt of his head. The man kept his eyes fixed on the floor as he clutched his woolen hat nervously between his thick hands. 

_Sun bleached hair, salt damaged clothes, cuts on his fingers, different healing stages, why would a fisherman-? Oh no…_

The Captain’s voice broke the tense silence. “I’m terribly sorry, your Highnesses, the word just came in. The Andromeda never made it to port. There is talk of a terrible storm off on the Southern Sea five days ago... I’m afraid we can expect the worst.”

Sherlock took a step towards the Captain. “What do you mean, the worst?”

“Sherlock...” his brother raised his hand in warning.

The Captain looked uneasily between the two brothers. “Prince Mycroft, what shall we do?”

“Send soldiers to the southern coast to look for any wreckage.” Mycroft’s voice was clear and sober “You will inform me if they find anything of significance.”

“Yes, your Highness.” the Captain saluted as Mycroft left the room without further comment.

“Mycroft, what can I do?” Sherlock asked as he ran after his brother. Mycroft kept his pace down the corridor towards his room, steadfastly ignoring his brother. 

“I can help, I’ll know what to look for,” Sherlock insisted, “We can ask Uncle Rudy to come and help too-”

Mycroft stopped in his tracks and fixed Sherlock with an icy glare. “I am the Crown Prince of Londondalle, I do not require _help_.” he spat. 

Sherlock was left standing in the corridor as Mycroft locked himself in his bedroom.

-

The following days brought a procession of solemn faced soldiers to the Palace, each bearing pieces of splintered wood and ripped burgundy canvas for Mycroft’s inspection. On the fourth day, two soldiers brought the water-logged trunk of the Andromeda’s first mate, found on the shores of the southernmost village in the Kingdom. Mycroft issued an official statement declaring the King and Queen to have been lost at sea and made arrangements for the funeral ceremonies to be performed without the bodies. After all the papers were signed, he retired to his room and there he remained, no matter how much Sherlock banged on the door and demanded, argued and, at one time, begged, for him to come out.

Three days after Mycroft’s statement was made public, Sherlock found himself on top of Londondalle’s highest cliff, standing alone between his parents’ burial stones. As the Bishop droned on his prayers, Sherlock stared at the considerable crowd before him, a sea of black clothes and unfamiliar faces. Not even Uncle Rudy had come for the ceremony, claiming a sudden worsening of his back problems. 

Sherlock suppressed a shiver as the cold autumn wind whistled between the naked trees. He tried to ignore the sound of the waves crashing forcefully against the bottom of the cliff and concentrated on the proceedings before him. Every now and again he would notice a pitying look directed at him and he would stare down his concerned subject until they would look away. 

The funeral was short and to the point, and soon enough the crowds were dispersing, glad to get away from the light drizzle that had begun to fall.

Sherlock made his way through the people that had remained to convey their formally dictated sympathies. He ignored the stragglers and climbed his carriage, sitting back against the door with a sigh. He wrapped his black coat tighter against himself and pretended not to hear the condescending tones of _Poor thing, it’s the shock…; He’s practically by himself, now…_ and _I heard that Prince Mycroft…_ as the carriage made its way slowly down the steep road and towards the Palace. 

The Palace was quiet when he arrived. Night had already fallen and the only source of light were the few chandeliers that lit the main stairway. Sherlock’s footsteps echoed in the empty halls as he made his way inside. He bypassed his own bedroom and reached his brother’s perpetually closed door. Moonlight shone on the door, painting the colourful decorations in muted tones of blue and gray.

Sherlock raised his hand and knocked. “Mycroft?”

The sound resonated on the quiet corridor, and, like always, there was no answer.

Sherlock sang the same melody he had been singing since he was five-years-old.

_“Please I know you're in there._

_People are asking where you've been._

_I feel this is getting out of hand,_

_They don’t understand._

_Just let me in!”_ he begged.

He could feel the cold tendrils of hopelessness curling around his heart and constricting his chest.

He drew a shaky breath, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. The lonely prince turned and sat himself against the door. There was no point in being anywhere else, he realized.

_“We only have each other._

_It's just you and me._

_What are we gonna do?_

_Do you want to solve a murder...?”_ he trailed off and rested his head against the oddly cold wood.

Tears fell freely across his cheeks, now. There was no one to see them, anyway.

Out of habit, his right hand found his coat pocket to grab the object within. He felt Billy’s glass bottle growing warm as he held it in his hand.

_What do you have to lose?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wipes brows* Damn, that was a big one! If you are a fan of meta, you may recognize @sagestreet's theory that says that daddy Holmes may have had an affair with uncle Rudy. I'll post the link as soon as I find it.  
> I hope you're enjoying the story so far. Kudos and comments are love <3


	7. A New Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His own little blizzard, Sherlock thought, despondently. Well, if he died from taking the concoction, at least he’d have the last consolation of tripping Mycroft with his corpse on his way out of his room.

_What do you have to lose?_

Sherlock chuckled dejectedly when he couldn’t think of an answer. 

He cleaned his tear stained cheeks with his coat sleeves and considered his options. He took Billy’s bottle from his pocket and lifted it carefully up against the moonlight to give it an experimental shake. The powder, dull gray in the dim light, danced in soft rivulets inside the glass.

His own little blizzard, Sherlock thought, despondently. Well, if he died from taking the concoction, at least he’d have the last consolation of tripping Mycroft with his corpse on his way out of his room.

Making up his mind, he sniffed and jutted up his chin. Since he didn't really know how he was supposed to use the powder, Sherlock decided to take the most obvious route. He gathered up his courage and took out the cork stopper, tipping the bottle's contents on his tongue in one swift motion. 

The powder assaulted his taste buds with an acidic burst and he pulled a face at the flavour. His mouth filled with excess saliva that he had to swallow before he could resolutely pour the rest of the powder into his mouth.

Fighting his gag reflex, Sherlock let the empty bottle roll from his fingers and sat back against Mycroft’s door to wait for the powder to take effect. His gaze wandered around the deserted hallway as he swallowed against the taste in his mouth. The silence weighed oppressively over him, cut only by the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock down the hall, solicitously counting away the time. One minute, five, ten…

Still feeling frustratingly like himself, Sherlock let out a defeated growl. _Incompetent ass_ , he thought bitterly, and what an idiot Sherlock was to believe in him. The bloody drug was useless...

He brushed a hand against his drying eyes in irritation, but recoiled with a start when his touch burned against his face. Inspecting his open palm with some trepidation, the prince could see that the contour of his fingers were glowing a soft pink, then bright yellow, then vibrant green, changing colour whenever he moved them. 

A delighted smile blossomed on his lips and his anxiety dropped from his shoulders like a heavy cloak. _Finally!_

Sherlock raised his hands reverently into the air and the colourful aura ran down his arms, covering his body and spilling onto the floor. Slowly, the colours spread all around him and, soon enough, everything around Sherlock was alive in a warm, colourful light. He tilted his head from one side to the other, making the colours dance. The desolate corridor now glowed in such vibrant tones that Sherlock couldn’t help but sigh in admiration.

Only the moon remained unchanged, Sherlock noticed, as he looked up at the window before him. It hung stubbornly ivory white and cold, no matter how much Sherlock stared at it. He shrugged clumsily against a pang of disappointment. There were other things to entertain him, now.

Turning his attention back to his glowing hands, Sherlock decided to try and touch them to his face again. To his delight, they no longer burned his skin but caressed it with warm waves of pure energy. The prince brought his hands lower to tenderly hold his aching neck and shoulders. The waves permeated his tense muscles and slowly chased away the cold weight in his chest, coiling around his bones like heavy, sun warmed boas. 

He took a deep, contented breath, feeling relaxed and energized.

No point in moping about on the cold floor when there is so much to see, Sherlock reasoned. He struggled to stand up, feeling as if his arms and legs had grown several feet longer. It took him a moment to re-acquaint himself with his newly stretched limbs before he could regain his balance properly. As awkward as they were, they would surely come in handy to climb up the roof.

Speaking of which, Sherlock decided it would be a good idea to get a bit of fresh air, see how the town looked like with these new colours.

In a few disjointed steps, Sherlock climbed up the narrow windowsill, pushing down the several porcelain vases that adorned it. They fell and shattered on the floor with an hilarious popping noise. Sherlock giggled as he looked down at the mess on the carpet. Even the grandfather clock laughed rhythmically from down the hall.

The prince turned towards the window and his face fell when he noticed the moon, judging him silently, up in the night sky. _Stupid moon, not glowing like the rest of the things_ , he thought, narrowing his eyes at the offending satelite. He’ll show it. As soon as he could get that stupid window open he’d pluck it from the sky and eat it, too. 

Sherlock’s clumsy fingers wandered around the wooden window frame, looking for the lock. He stood on the tip of his toes to reach the top of the tall window, but flinched and almost toppled backwards when his overheated cheek touched the cold window. After regaining his balance, he eyed the fogged glass with distrust. He could feel the cold emanating from the window, trying to seep under his clothes. He shook his head slowly. No, that wouldn’t do. He was feeling warm now, he didn’t want to be cold again. Not anymore.

He climbed carefully down the windowsill and backed away from the moonlight that shone through the windowpanes. The cold wouldn’t touch him again… He wouldn’t let it.

He made his way slowly past Mycroft’s door towards his bedroom and closed his door firmly behind him. Had his mind been clearer, he would have noticed that Mycroft’s door was now ajar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my self indulgence with this little chapter. I wasn't describing the effects of any particular real-life drug, I was just having fun with the narration.  
> The actual story will continue in the next chapter, where Mycroft will take matters into his hands.


	8. The Power's Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name Powers rang a bell deep within Sherlock’s ransacked Mind Palace. He sat still and closed his eyes, trying to chase the ringing back into his memory. He searched for a few moments amid the chaos of his mind until he retrieved the desired information.

The next morning greeted Sherlock with a piercing headache and a foul tasting mouth. As he slowly surfaced into consciousness, he realized how utterly uncomfortable he was. He was still fully clothed in his mourning attire, apparently having climbed into his bed without bothering to take off either his woolen coat or his shoes. The smell of stale sweat assaulted his nostrils as he tried to move under the bedcovers, and his scalp itched with the need for a wash.

He groaned and stretched his legs, toeing off his shoes. With a few more movements he was able to get out of his coat without leaving the dark cocoon of his feather duvet.

Feeling a bit less restricted, Sherlock curled into himself as tight as he could, trying to chase after the warmth that had filled his chest only a few hours prior. 

He was trying to will himself back into unconsciousness when he heard a knock outside. He groaned softly and curled his back, waiting for the intrusive noise to disappear. But the noise kept interrupting his rest with a thoroughly irritating tapping, until Sherlock couldn’t take it any longer.

“For God’s sake, what?!” he yelled as he surfaced from under the bedcovers. He almost fell from the bed when he realized that there was a dark figure standing by his window. On the outside.

After a second of panic his brain informed him that it was Billy, standing on his window washer’s pulley, fist raised to knock on the window again.

The sight of the smiling window washer filled Sherlock with a mix of annoyance and relief. He jolted from the bed and made for the window, trying to control a vague sense of nausea that filled his senses as he stood upright.

“What do you want?” the prince barked as he unlocked the window.

Billy’s smug smile remained in place despite Sherlock’s welcome. 

“Hullo there, your princeness. I just thought to check in on you, see how you were doin’.” he said, as casually as one would greet a friend on the street.

Sherlock rubbed his gummy eyes for a moment, at a loss for what to say. Everyone in the Kingdom had been informed of the funeral. Billy would certainly realize that Sherlock was feeling less than well. 

“Just brilliant, thanks,” the prince deadpanned, wishing to cut the conversation short. He pushed on the window to close it but Billy stopped him with a hand against the window pane.

“'ave you tried my gift, by any chance?” he asked in an unctuous tone, pushing his head against the gap. From that distance Sherlock could smell his breath, as rotten as his own felt inside his mouth.

The prince took a step back and raised his chin, daring Billy to cut through the mindless banter and get to the point. “What do you think?” he answered.

Billy’s smile grew slowly, revealing more than a few missing teeth. “I think you want some more. It’ll be two crowns, please.”

-

From that moment on, Sherlock’s days fused together in an amorphous haze. Billy would come by his window every two days to bring him more of his product and to collect his payment.

For his part, Sherlock kept to the sanctuary of his room, only leaving occasionally to roam the empty halls, when the darkness of the night would combine with his drugged perception and make the furniture glow and dance to a wonderful tune in his mind.

Every other inhabitant of the Palace, even Mycroft, left him blissfully alone. Mrs Thompson, the Palace governess, tried to enquire after him once, and was swiftly yelled out of his room for her troubles.

From that moment on, no one else bothered him. His meals appeared on a platter outside his bedroom whenever Sherlock decided to open his door and his bed was magically cleaned every time the sheets became too dirty.

He could get used to this, Sherlock decided, as he took a bite of a cinnamon roll, only to drop the rest back on the platter. He closed his door and climbed back under the covers.

-

Sherlock was lying in his bed, eyes closed and humming to himself, happily riding the coattails of his latest high, when a thick envelope was dropped on his chest. He sat up in disoriented alarm, eyes wide and arms flailing about, before he realized that Mycroft was standing next to his bed, looking as calm and collected as ever.

“Do you want to solve a murder?” Mycroft asked simply, a figure of perfect serenity if not for his tired eyes.

Sherlock stared at his brother in disbelief as he willed his heartbeat to regain a normal pace. His blood shot eyes searched Mycroft’s ice blue ones, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Ngh… What?” he mumbled after too long a pause. 

“I said, do you want to solve a murder?” Mycroft repeated, a hint of frustration permeating his tone.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop when he finally understood what his brother was saying. His face twisted in a snarl at the cruel joke. “Are you mocking me?” 

Mycroft was unfazed by the display. “Quite the contrary,” he answered calmly, “I'm afraid I'm asking you a very real question.”

Confused by his brother’s dispassionate attitude, Sherlock picked up the envelope from the bed and stared dumbly at it, frowning against the fog in his mind. “Why? What's this?” he asked, weighing it in his hands.

A sardonic smile blossomed in Mycroft’s face. “I see that the substance is dulling your eyesight as well as your sense of smell,” he taunted, relaxing his posture.

Sherlock's head snapped up in alarm. It took him longer than he would like to come up with a retort. "I have no idea what you are talking about. I've merely-"

Mycroft raised a commanding hand to stop his brother's outburst. "Please. Trying to deny it is an insult to us both."

The younger prince closed his mouth slowly, feeling cornered. He coughed softly, trying to hide his discomfort. 

“You are holding the case file of the Powers murder investigation,” Mycroft explained in a gentler tone.

The name Powers rang a bell deep within Sherlock’s ransacked Mind Palace. He sat still and closed his eyes, trying to chase the ringing back into his memory. He searched for a few moments amid the chaos until he retrieved the desired information.

“I remember that case...Found dead at his desk, signs of... strangling!” Sherlock recited, “all doors and windows locked from the inside.”

Mycroft’s smile became a little more honest. “The very same.”

“This was some ten years ago,” Sherlock remarked, “I had some ideas about it, but Father wouldn't let me access the evidence,” he added, unable to keep a small hint of disappointment from permeating the distant memory. Not one to contain his curiosity, Sherlock opened the envelope with slightly trembling fingers and took out a thick stack of assorted documents and handwritten notes.

“He may have had some qualms about letting a thirteen-year-old in on a murder investigation...” Mycroft explained while Sherlock read the first page of the pile.

“This says they never found the killer,” Sherlock pointed out, ignoring his brother’s argument, “Why are you giving this to me? Why now?” 

Mycroft’s smile grew, “Oh my, you are getting slow, little brother,” he teased.

“Sod off.” Sherlock growled, lowering his gaze back to the documents and curling his shoulders forward.

Mycroft sat primly at the edge of the bed, which made Sherlock look up in surprise at the oddly intimate move. 

The older brother took a deep breath before launching into his explanation. “Carl Powers was a trusted business advisor of the Gaulian ambassador to Londondalle. The bizarre circumstances of his death, combined with the failure of Londondalle’s authorities to explain them, put a severe strain on our diplomatic relations with Gaulia. The Gaulian Prime Minister accused us of not doing enough to solve the case and the trade between our two Kingdoms all but ceased since then.”

Sherlock found himself nodding absentmindedly as his brother droned on. His gaze wandered around Mycroft’s face, the shape eyebrows, his aquiline nose, his white blond eyelashes, almost too light to see. Could he count them from this distance?

“I want to figure out what happened to Mr Powers as a gesture of good will, as it were,” Mycroft continued, “If we solve this case, the current Gaulian Prime Minister may be persuaded to attend the coronation. We’ll be able to discuss a new trade deal during the celebrations.”

“What celebrations?” Sherlock’s attention snapped back from his reverie at the unusual word.

Mycroft inspected his cuffs in a poor attempt to hide his self-satisfied smile. “Oh, haven't I mentioned it? I am to be crowned King in front of all Londondalle society, as well as several heads of state and foreign dignitaries.” 

Apparently satisfied with the state of his sleeves, he turned to his brother with a put-upon sigh. “Protocol determines that we host a Coronation Ball in the Palace after the deed is done,” he continued, “and I suppose the people will want a parade or something to that extent... I would much rather just skip the whole thing but tradition dictates otherwise.”

Sherlock felt his heart beat beginning to race again. He cleared his throat before attempting a casual answer, “I see… And when would that be?” He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a dismissive air.

“The 21st of March,” his brother answered. “The ministers seemed to appreciate the symbolism. But the whole thing will have to be canceled if the Powers murder is not solved,” he warned, “I cannot be crowned king without the support of one of our biggest allies.”

Sherlock thumbed through the pages in his lap as he considered the problem. “You expect me to solve a cold case in less than four months? You must be desperate to solve this if you came to me for help,” he chuckled contemptuously.

“I need this solved, quickly and quietly. You know this case, I’m simply giving you the evidence you didn’t have before,” Mycroft pointed a white gloved finger at the documents in his brother’s hands. 

“I’d solve it myself but I’m too busy with state affairs at the moment. New contacts have to be made. Entire dossiers to be studied…” he trailed off with a theatrical sigh. “You seem to have enough time on your hands.”

“Well…”

“If you're not too indisposed, that is,” Mycroft corrected himself, standing up from the bed. “I can always ask the Captain to appoint someone else,” he offered.

“No! It's alright!” Sherlock let his eagerness show for a second before he reminded himself to sound nonchalant, “I'll give it a look, see what I can do.”

“The Kingdom thanks you.” Mycroft bowed his head and turned to leave.

“Oh, bugger off.” Sherlock countered distractedly, his attention already engaged in the pages before him. 

He was faintly aware of the door clicking shut as he spread the documents over his bed. He soon realized his eyes wouldn’t fix on a paragraph for long enough before the letters started to glow, so he decided to sort the pages into stacks as he waited for the drug to wear off. First he chose the reports, then the diagrams and maps, and then the case notes. Then, as his brain lifted from the fog of the drug, he organized each stack by date to build a timeline. Soon enough, his mind began to build a mental image of the crime scene and he found himself walking through his Mind Palace with a purpose, picking bits and pieces of information to form a cohesive image.

There was a quick knock on the window that made Sherlock jump up in alarm. Turning around , the prince saw Billy standing outside on his window washer's platform, waving happily at him.

Sherlock gave the paperwork one last regretful look before standing up and opening the window.

“Hey, mate!” Billy greeted him, formalities long forgotten.

“Hi...” Sherlock answered, scratching his oily curls. Once his attention was drawn away from the case, he could feel the tingling pull of the drug invading his chest.

“I 'ave a new batch for you. Some prime stuff.” He kneeled and dug his hand deep in the grimy bag at his feet, searching inside.

“I don’t think I need any more of it at the moment...” Sherlock began.

Billy looked up at him, surprise clear on his features. “You don’t? You’ll regret it, mind! I’ve tried some and I can tell you, it’s a hell of a ride,” he smiled conspiratorially.

“Well, I’m a bit busy right now, can’t really spare the time for it,” the prince answered drily. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to control his mounting anxiety.

“You, busy? Pull the other one!” Billy laughed and took out a small wooden box from the bag, standing up with a groan befitting an old man. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll sell you a smaller sample for you to try… When you 'ave the time, that is,” he added, raising a placating hand. “I wouldn’t want my favourite customer to miss out on this one.”

He opened the box for Sherlock to see. Inside there were six little glass bottles neatly stacked in a grate, identical to the ones he usually bought if not for the slightly blue tint of the powder they contained. The prince jumped when Billy closed the box abruptly and held it against his chest.

“And besides, you should stock up,” he carried on. “The guards 'ave been looking at me funny and I’m not planning on rotting in jail, thank you very much. I’m making a proper amount of money 'ere at the Palace, but if I start feeling like they’re on to me, I’ll pack my things and go. And then what will you do?” he asked, raising a fuzzy eyebrow.

“I’ll stop taking it, obviously.” Sherlock sniffed defensively.

Billy laughed again, but it soon devolved into a cough. He smiled at Sherlock as soon as he regained his breath. “Really? You’ll go back to your books, and your roofs, and your windows, and your walls-”

“I have other things going on,” he interrupted.

“Yeah, like what?” Billy challenged.

Feeling the cold gripping around his chest, Sherlock decided to cut the conversation short. “Just shut up and give it to me.” 

The prince fished two golden coins from his pocket and extended his hand imperiously. “Make it two, just to be sure,” he added when Billy opened the box again.

The window washer obediently deposited the two bottles on his palm and took the offered coins.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” he said as Sherlock closed the window on his smug face.

-

A week after taking the case, Sherlock marched into his brother’s office and deposited the Power’s case file on his desk, along with a small notebook filled with his own handwritten notes.

“Here you go,” he declared, taking a step back and resting his hands on his hips. He had made a point to bathe and shave that morning, trying to rid himself of the drug’s cloying scent. And although his tailored clothes hung a little too loosely over his frame, Sherlock declared himself to look competent and efficient enough to present his results.

Mycroft, sitting at his desk, calmly lifted his eyes from the report he had been reading before it was buried under Sherlock’s paperwork.

“Oh, you’ve solved it?” he asked in a disinterested tone. His glacial eyes quickly scanned his brother’s frame before he plastered a diplomatic smile on his face.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, trying to contain his nervous energy. “Yup,” he answered, popping the _p,_ “I would have been quicker, too, if you’d let me inspect the actual room, but I managed to work around that. The detectives missed a secret passage from the kitchen to the rooms on the first floor, built originally to allow servants to pass by unnoticed, and closed off after a house renovation fifty years ago. I looked at the original floor plans and-”

Mycroft raised a hand to stop his brother’s explanation. “Spare me the details. Who killed him?”

Sherlock let out a nervous breath and uncrossed his arms. “The governess’s husband. Powers was having an affair with her. The husband found out and decided to have his revenge using the old passage.” He approached his brother’s desk and opened the envelope, extracting an old interrogation report. “He worked as a carpenter at the time, had the skill and tools to open the old passage and then close it up again after the deed was done.”

Mycroft took the yellowing page from his brother’s hand and read it carefully. “You’re certain.” his question sounded like a statement.

“Very much so, yes.”

His eyes locked with his brother’s over the edge of the report, analyzing. Sherlock raised his chin in defiance against his brother's scrutiny.

Apparently satisfied, Mycroft put down the document and smiled. “I’ll pass this information on to the Captain. Thank you, Sherlock, you’ve done your country a great service.”

“It’s no problem.” he answered lamely, feeling disarmed.

An awkward silence filled the room when Sherlock didn’t take his leave. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in silent questioning and Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest again.

“So, are you going through with the coronation ceremonies?” the younger brother asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Mycroft made a show of sorting through the documents on his desk “Yes. I can’t imagine the Gaulian Prime Minister will refuse his invitation after we’ve brought the culprit to justice.”

“And the ball?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Needs must. You’ll have to be present too, I’m afraid.” Mycroft added.

Sherlock shrugged, trying to look bored. “Needs must. And who’s organizing it?”

“I put Mrs Thompson in charge. I simply can’t spare the time for it.” the older brother raised a hand in fabricated frustration.

“Mrs Thompson? She has a terrible taste in music.” Sherlock scoffed. “Unless you want to endure four hours of bagpipes, you’ll have to let me take care of the music. She can take care of everything else, for all I care.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Well, I don’t see why not.”

The younger prince nodded, trying to contain his excitement under a stern look. He turned to leave but paused when he reached the doorway. His hand touched the door frame before he asked over his shoulder “And uh… Do you have any more cold cases that need solving?”


	9. For The First Time In Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The growing sound of marching boots took Sherlock’s attention from the mirror to his window. Looking down he could see the Palace Guards slowly pouring into the courtyard in preparation to open the Palace’s gates. Even though he couldn’t see beyond the walls, Sherlock could make out the faint noise of the crowd gathering outside, laughing and singing, ready to step through the long closed gates and cheer for their future king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for another song? 
> 
> Please stay safe and enjoy my little contribution to making quarantine a bit more bearable. A big thank you to my lovely beta, CamillaCarmine!
> 
> Also, comments and kudos are love ❤️

“Prince Sherlock?”

Sherlock grumbled and turned away from the voice. He crossed his thick velvet robe tighter against his chest and sighed deeply. The bright morning sun shone through the window, gently kissing his face. Everything was warm. Perfect.

“Your Highness?” the voice tried again. “Are you there?”

“Yes! Shut up!” Sherlock snapped. There was a rustle of paper as he curled further into himself, chasing the remnants of his dream.

“It’s time, your Highness...” the voice insisted.

“Yes, it’s time. Of course it’s time…” Sherlock mumbled into the carpet, already half asleep. There was a pause before he asked “Time for what?”

“Time to get ready, sir,” the voice in the hallway informed him. “Your brother has instructed me to-”

“To hell with my brother!" he cursed automatically. His eyes snapped open when he finally realized what was happening. "Oh! The coronation!” Suddenly filled with energy, Sherlock disentagled himself from his robe and stood up in a rush, scattering papers all over his bedroom.

He was at the door before the papers had settled back down. Outside he found the Royal Tailor, flanked by two nervous looking footmen, who held several leather cases and a carefully folded suit. When suddenly faced with the disheveled prince, the tailor took a step back but quickly masked his surprise with a look of professional indifference.

“Good morning, your Highness,” he bowed respectfully “I’m here to-”

“Don’t bother, thanks,” Sherlock interrupted, “my hands are still working.” He snatched the suit from one of the dumfounded footmen and slammed the door in their faces.

Back inside the bedroom, the prince couldn’t help but give an excited hop. “Coronation day!” he declared to the empty room. “Yes, it’s Christmas!” Finally, no more waiting and planning. Now was the time for action!

He stepped around the mess of papers on the carpet with a spring in his step and laid the suit carefully on the upturned bed, humming a happy tune.

Sleep had been hard to find the previous night. After tossing and turning in his bed for a couple of hours, Sherlock had decided to give up and use his time in a more productive manner. He had taken his latest cold case and spread the documents all over the floor, willing himself to focus on the data before him and not on the possibilities of the day ahead. He had fallen asleep over the paperwork well after three in the morning, judging by the creases on his pajamas. 

Now, in the morning light, Sherlock smiled gratefully at the strewn papers. Shortly after solving the Power’s case, he had dived into the realm of criminal investigation with a relentless sense of purpose. More than happy to indulge his brother, Mycroft had directed the Captain of the Guard to supply Sherlock with a steady source of cold cases. Soon enough, his every waking hour was consumed by The Work (capitalized), leaving him with little to no time to entertain darker thoughts of glass vials and wandering senses.

As much as he relished The Work, Sherlock began to dread those idle moments between a solved case and a new one. With every hour that the Captain failed to provide him with a new cold case, the high of success faded away and the ever encroaching boredom took its place. In those moments, he heard the siren call of the powder, enticing him with promises of warmth and comfort. Those calls had been growing stronger lately, as the Captain had been struggling to bring him more unsolved cases. The well was drying, Sherlock had realized with a jolt of dread, when he was handed an eighty-year-old case with little more than a few fading reports and descriptions of long lost evidence. 

But instead of giving in to the drug’s call, Sherlock had devised a plan. It was obvious to anyone with a brain (even Mycroft), that Sherlock had a natural talent for crime solving, and wasting it with dusty cases was a disservice to Londondalle. He would prove his worth with a fresh, demanding case, and assert his place as a bona fide Detective (capitalized as well).

But there was the rub. Mycroft would not provide him with a new case, of course. He would never willingly give Sherlock the keys to his gilded cage, arguing that a _career_ was below a Royal Prince or some other rot. And the Captain would sooner fall on his sword than go against Mycroft’s orders. No, the only way to convince Mycroft was to solve a crime, quickly and brilliantly, for all of Londondalle to see. Then his brother would have no choice but to employ Sherlock as High Detective, or Supreme Crime Solver (he was still working on his future title).

And what better time for crimes to happen than during the commotion of Coronation day?

After washing and shaving, Sherlock dressed himself with the utmost care. Adjusting his cravat and straightening his cuffs, the prince took a deep breath and stepped in front of the mirror. 

An approving smile grew on his lips when he saw his reflection. He had to admit he cut a rather dashing figure. His black curls fell in calculated disarray over his slim face, with entrancing blue-gray eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. He had regained a bit of weight in the last two months, and although he was still a few pounds too thin, his perfectly tailored suit gave the illusion of elegance instead of malnourishment. 

Sherlock had made sure the suit was made to his exact specifications, and now, as he looked at himself in the bright sunshine, he was glad he had invested so much time in pestering the Royal Tailor with all of his demands. The suit was made of the finest cotton, navy blue and accented with delicately embroidered green and burgundy leaves, the colours of the Londondallian flag. Everything was trimmed with a fine gold thread that complemented the shiny brass buttons. Under the jacket, Sherlock wore a pristine white dress shirt, a white cravat with a gold pin and a dove gray vest. The look was finished with a pair of white gloves, a ceremonial sword and glossy black knee high boots that had been discreetly placed by his door while he was in the bathroom.

The growing sound of marching boots pulled Sherlock’s attention from the mirror to his window. Looking down he could see the Palace Guards slowly pouring into the courtyard in preparation to open the Palace’s gates. Even though he couldn’t see beyond the walls, Sherlock could make out the faint noise of the crowd gathering outside, laughing and singing, ready to step through the long closed gates and cheer for their future king.

A cold thread of doubt tightened in his stomach at the joyful sound. Locked away in the Palace since he was five-years-old, he didn’t have any reliable information on how people behaved in the real world. Worse, he had no idea on how to interact with them. What if things didn’t go as expected? What if he miscalculated? What if he failed? 

The cold thread grew stronger and climbed up his stomach to wrap around his throat. Sherlock gulped to ease the tightness and turned back to the mirror to stare at his reflection.

He raised his chin and took a deep, steadying breath. He wouldn’t fail. He couldn’t. If things went south, he had an escape plan - one that fit in his pocket. 

Confidence restored, the prince adjusted his hair one last time and walked to his bed. There he dropped to a crouch and reached a long arm under the frame to extract a little leather pouch from its hiding place. It clinked when he hid it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

Feeling the reassuring weight against his chest, Sherlock walked purposefully out the door.

-

As he made his way through the Palace’s West wing, Sherlock couldn’t help but marvel at how different it had become. Everywhere he turned there were maids hurrying along with dusters and brooms, pushing back heavy curtains and opening long closed shutters. Dust motes danced in the light, upset from their rest by the maids’ efforts. All the Palace vibrated with nervous energy while people ran back and forth, preparing for the celebrations. 

Sherlock’s heart was pounding in his chest by the time he reached the main staircase. The main hall was crowded with staff, busily setting new candles and depositing flowers on every horizontal surface. His eyes drank in all the activity going on below and his limbs screamed at him to take part in the action. Sherlock smiled delightedly when he realized that, today, he could.

He began to walk down the stairs in an even, stately pace, but gradually his excitement got the better of him and he all but flew down the last steps, scaring a passing maid when his boots hit the marble floor with a slap. 

Ignoring the old woman’s grumbles, Sherlock rushed into the once closed-off Ballroom. The usually deserted room was now busy with activity. Footmen were setting tables against the walls while maids brought in platters of food and drink in preparation for the evening guests. Mrs Turner was arguing with the cook in a far corner, while several musicians were noisily tuning their instruments right beside them.

Unable to control his enthusiasm anymore, Sherlock broke into a run across the Ballroom, decided on exploring every bit of the Palace and drink in all the energy and change. He would make the most of this day and commit it all into his Mind Palace, where he had built a lovely new room dedicated to the first day of the rest of his life.

In his giddiness, he sang out loud.

“ _The window is open, so's that door._

_I didn't know they did that anymore!_

_I thought he’d thrown away the salad plates.”_

He swiftly maneuvered between a group of maids carrying impressively tall stacks of plates. They shrieked in alarm as the prince dashed past them on his way to the Dining Hall.

 _“For years I've roamed these empty halls,”_ he continued, pivoting gracefully around a distracted footman.

_“So bored, I was climbing up the walls._

_Finally, they're opening up the gates!”_ Sherlock declared with open arms as he climbed up the magnificent dining table.

He jumped back down when he saw an exasperated Mrs Thompson rushing in to tell him off. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he made her twirl around with him.

_“There'll be actual, real live people._

_Someone might commit a crime,”_

_And I’ll be there to solve it in real time!”_ Sherlock told her with an excited smile.

As he turned, his eyes caught glimpse window washer's pulley hanging outside one of the open windows. Leaving Mrs Thompson clutching at her head, Sherlock sprinted towards the window and onto the empty pulley with an efortless jump.

_“'Cause for the first time in forever,_

_There'll be noises, there'll be lights.”_

The prince quickly found the correct rope to pull him up. Slowly but surely, the blue expanse of the ocean became visible over the Palace’s roofs. A cool sea breeze touched Sherlock’s face and he closed his eyes in delight.

_“For the first time in forever,_

_I’ll be putting wrongs to rights!”_

The pulley stopped with a jolt and Sherlock jumped onto the roof, not missing a beat. He pivoted around, drinking in the view. He hadn’t been on the rooftops since the funeral, either too high or too busy to indulge his habit, and now he realized how much he had missed it. 

_“Don't know if I'm elated or a bit high,_

_But I'm somewhere in that zone,”_

Seagulls flew over his head, disturbed by all the ships still entering the bay at that hour, bringing guests and gifts for the Coronation. A pair landed a few feet away from Sherlock and began preening each other's feathers.

Sherlock's heart constricted in his chest at the sight the birds. He sang a bit more quietly to avoid disturbing the animals.

_“'Cause for the first time in forever,_

_I won't feel alone.”_

Alone with the seagulls, he cracked open the door on one of the most secluded rooms in his Mind Palace to poke at the ache in his heart, if only for a second. There, where he kept his dreams about his future career, he always imagined another presence by his side - a partner to stand by him and share in his adventures. The prince felt his cheeks warm in shame. In his excitement, he had let his innermost urges surface onto his consciousness, so he shut the door firmly closed again. 

Eager to get away from his wandering thoughts, Sherlock made his way back to the pulley and down into the action. He reached the Dining Hall window at full speed, surprising Billy, who had been standing by the window with a mop and a bucket in his hand, wondering where his pulley had gone.

He ignored the window washer and ran back to the Ballroom, now completely empty apart from the musicians. The maids had finished setting the tables with an impressive array of cakes, puddings and other sweet treats. Sherlock scoffed at the display. Leave it to Mycroft to have a room filled with deserts.

Inspired by the rehearsing orchestra, the prince leaned dramatically against a wall to continue his song.

_“Tonight, imagine me scarf and all,_

_Enigmatic and dark against the wall._

_The picture of sophisticated style.”_

As he sang, Sherlock pulled a nearby curtain across his shoulders with a flourish. The heavy burgundy velvet sat like an overgrown scarf around his neck, leaving only his eyes visible over the folds of fabric. 

Looking across his imagined audience, the prince noticed an antique display cabinet filled with skulls from different animals, a collection left by his quirky grandmother. On the topmost shelf stood a lonely human skull, gazing back at him with hollow eyes. Sherlock grinned at the skull in return. There was his partner!

_“I suddenly see him standing there,_

_Looking like someone you should beware,_

_I’ll make him smile and all will be worthwhile.”_

Sherlock twisted away from the curtain and made his way to the cabinet in what he hoped was a confident swagger. As soon as he got there, he rested an elbow against the cabinet like someone in casual conversation with the skulls inside.

 _“But then maybe someone gets murdered,”_ he told them.

_"And we’ll go investigate_

_And order in Chinese to celebrate!”_

Hearing footsteps approaching, Sherlock quickly opened the cabinet door and grabbed the human skull, hiding it behind his back. He nodded disinterestedly at the passing guard, waiting for him to turn his back on him. As soon as the coast was clear, Sherlock rushed back to the main hall with his new companion and turned towards the East Wing. He quickly reached the long closed Portrait Room, its walls covered with dozens of paintings gathered by several generations of the royal family. Sherlock had vivid memories of time spent in this room, when Mycroft and he would sit and stare wide eyed at the paintings of vicious battles and noblemen riding horses (and in one instance a reindeer), arguing over who could imagine a better backstory for the characters. There he was again, after all those years. A grown man, alone but for his new companion. Although those distant memories were tinged with a shade of melancholy, Sherlock was glad to be moving away from his past and into a future he would make for himself.

He held the skull in front of him with both hands and spun, as if dancing with his skeletal friend.

_“For the first time in forever,_

_There'll be action, there'll be fun._

_For the first time in forever,_

_I could be paired up with someone.”_ he sang, waltzing with the skull.

_“And I know it is totally crazy_

_To dream we’d go freelance!”_

The prince finally reached the end of the room, dizzy and out of breath. He was grinning wildly at his new friend, returning the skull’s yellow smile. Feeling invigorated by his mad tour of the Palace, Sherlock deposited the skull reverently on a leather armchair, hoping to confuse the next person that wondered in. He winked goodbye at his friend and left for the main hall.

_“But for the first time in forever_

_At least I've got a chance,”_ he sang out loud as he walked down the hall.

_-_

Up in his study, Mycroft was pacing back and forth as he waited for the clock to strike the hour. He had ordered the Royal Tailor and all the footmen to leave him as soon as he was dressed and refused to see any of his ministers. The time was for control and concentration. He was about to appear in front of all the Kingdom and its allies - he must project an image of absolute serenity as he stepped in the role of king.

His latest lap of the room took him by a row of magnificent oil paintings of the previous kings of Londondalle on their coronation day. Mycroft walked carefully towards the last one of the row, where his father stood proud, golden crown on his head and holding the royal orb and scepter, symbols of his new power. Mycroft’s eyes remained on his father’s hands. Despite all of his regalia, his father had followed the long standing tradition for the newly appointed monarch to hold the orb and scepter with their bare hands. Mycroft shuddered at the thought of having to divest himself of his gloves. As flimsy a barrier as they were, the gloves helped him control his powers most of the time. He remembered the day his father had given him his first pair, and how relieved he was with the temporary remedy. Mycroft looked at his father’s expressionless gaze and wished yet again for his steady guidance.

_“Don't let them in,_

_Don't let them see,_

_Be the great man you always have to be,”_ he muttered their mantra, trying to summon control over his powers.

Slowly, he took off his ornate green gloves and deposited them over a side table.

_“Conceal,_

_Don't feel,_

_Put on a show.”_

Releasing a shuddering breath, he grabbed a candlestick and a small porcelain bowl from the table. The touch of his bare hands on the objects sent a shudder through his arms, but Mycroft tightened his grasp and stood upright, turning around as he would do during the coronation ceremony.

_“Make one wrong move_

_And everyone will know.”_

Although he tried to maintain his chin raised and eyes forward, his gaze escaped downwards as he felt the familiar stirring of cold air around his hands. As he had feared, the candlestick and the bowl were completely frozen over and slowly growing delicate ice crystals on their surface. Mycroft hurriedly put the objects back on the table and hid his hands in his gloves again.

He leaned over the table as he willed his heartbeat to slow down. He would get through this. No one would notice if he was quick enough, if he stayed in control. He could hold it together for one day. 

_“But it's only for today…”_ he sang, standing upright.

He was the Crown Prince, soon to be King of Londondalle. His duty was more important than his fears. He would stand tall and fulfill his destiny. 

-

Down in the main hall, Sherlock had no such internal debate. He had long ago decided what he wanted and what his plan was - and he had only one day to put it into action. His heart was racing as he climbed down the front steps into the courtyard. He could see a pair of guards marching towards the gate, awaiting their orders.

 _“It’s only for today!”_ Sherlock sang, clenching his sweaty hands.

Mycroft adjusted the heavy burgundy cloak over his shoulders, securing it with a sapphire pin.

 _“It’s agony to wait!”_ He took a last wistful look at his father’s portrait and walked towards the door.

Sherlock tried not to fidget as the guards remained unbearably still by the gates. 

_“It’s agony to wait!”_ he complained.

Mycroft pushed the study door open, concealing his trepidation under an icy glare directed at the footmen waiting outside. 

_“Tell the guards to open up the gate!”_ he ordered.

The footmen scrambled to convey the orders as Mycroft turned back inside, closing the door behind him one last time.

The message was quick to reach the guards in the courtyard, and soon they were pushing open the gate. Sherlock felt as if his heart was trying to jump out of his throat when he saw the town slowly appear beyond the heavy doors.

 _“The gate!”_ he exclaimed and took to a run, not waiting for the guards to clear the path.

 _“For the first time in forever!”_ Sherlock sang and weaved his way between the people now pouring into the courtyard.

In transient safety of his study, Mycroft made his way towards the balcony. He rested his hands on the handles, gathering his courage before facing his people. Once again, he recited his father’s advice.

_“Don’t let them in,_

_Don't let them see…”_

If he had looked outside, he would have seen his brother’s black curls as he stubbornly tried to make his way against the moving crowd. Realizing that there were too many people on the bridge that connected the Palace courtyard to the town square, Sherlock swiftly jumped onto the stone parapet to avoid the moving crowd. 

_“I’m getting what I'm dreaming of!”_ he continued, making some heads turn to look at the finely dressed man standing on top of the parapet.

_“Be the great man you always have to be!”_ Mycroft told himself and pushed on the handles to open the windows.

Sherlock ignored the sudden uproar from the crowd and hurried along the bridge to finally reach the town square.

 _“A chance to change my boring world,”_ he sang.

The crown prince stepped onto the balcony to greet the cheering crowd below.

 _“Conceal,”_ Mycroft repeated quietly.

Sherlock looked at the people around him, scanning their faces with hope. One of them would surely have a criminal disposition. 

“ _A chance to do The Work,”_ he reminded himself of the ultimate goal.

Mycroft waved solemnly at the crowd, which erupted in ovation.

_“Conceal, don't feel,_

_Don't let them know!”_ if he kept to his mantra, he would make it through the day.

Tired of staring at the passers-by (who were giving him an increasingly wider berth) in hopes to find a criminal, Sherlock decided to continue exploring the town. He was eager to look closer at the places he had only known from the library window, inspect every nook and cranny, but he knew his time was limited. At least for now.

_“I know it all ends tomorrow_

_So it has to be today!_

_'Cause for the first time in forever,_

_For the first time in forever,”_

Giddy with excitement, the prince broke into a run down the main street and onto the docks, relishing the scent of briny air with every deep breath.

_“Nothing's in my way!-”_

His song was cut off abruptly when he slammed against the breast of a passing horse. The force of the impact threw Sherlock sideways, over the boardwalk and into a pile of nets on a moored fishing boat.

Although making for a safe landing spot, the fishing nets also managed to tangle around the prince, who flailed around in a very undignified manner as he tried to extricate himself. Preoccupied by this problem, Sherlock didn’t notice the sound of hurried footsteps before being unceremoniously dragged out of the nets by a pair of small but strong hands.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he yelled, filled with righteous indignation.

“I’m sorry! Oh, I’m so sorry!” a male voice replied. He let Sherlock go as soon as they reached the boardwalk “Are you ok?” it asked shyly.

Sherlock grumbled and stood up, straightening his jacket. After making sure he looked presentable again, he turned angrily around to give the man a piece of his mind, but whatever words he had died on his throat as he looked at his rescuer.

The man was about his age, perhaps a bit younger (or older?) and considerably shorter than him. His dark brown hair was perfectly slicked back from his face, showing large brown eyes and an open smile. He was dressed in a white and gold suit, with pearl buttons and a deep red silk sash across his chest. _A bit too lavish for Londondallian taste,_ Sherlock thought with an amused smile, _as if the accent wasn’t enough of a clue._ _A foreign dignitary, then. Embassador or higher..._

The man raised a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock’s silence.

“Hm, yes. Fine, I’m fine.” he blurted out, unable to tear his eyes away from the man. Seeing the both of them standing by the sea, _by that small boat,_ had woken up something deep within his Mind Palace. It was calling to him in a faint voice from somewhere inside one of those rooms he couldn’t quite find. 

“I _am_ dreadfully sorry. I really didn’t see you there,” the man insisted.

“No, it’s alright,” Sherlock assured him, still feeling a bit dazed, “I didn’t see you either.”

The man’s smile grew and his shoulders relaxed with genuine relief. “Well, we’re seeing each other, now...” he replied, trailing off. 

The man’s features were suddenly clouded by a look of deep embarrassment. “Where are my manners?” he cried out, before bowing deeply in formal introduction. “Prince James, of the Éiren Isles.” 

His eyes sparkled with a glint of mischievousness that Sherlock wholeheartedly approved of. “You can call me Jim. Hi!” he added in a sing-song voice.

Sherlock felt himself relaxing and bowed in reply. “Prince Sherlock of Londondalle.” 

Jim’s eyes widened at the revelation. “Prince Sherlock! Oh, your Highness, what an honour!” Jim bowed again, but this time kept his gaze fixed on the ground.

Sherlock chuckled at the sudden change in Jim’s tone. “Oh, leave off.”

The foreign prince kept his bow for a few more seconds before succumbing to laughter himself. 

“Well, it’s not every day you hit the brother of the future king of Londondalle with your horse.” he said, standing straight again. “You _are_ ok?”

Sherlock waved away Jim’s concerns, “Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry.” He was fine, better than fine, actually. 

“It’s that Seb here can be a bit of an oaf,” Jim explained as he walked back to his horse, who stood a few feet away from them, eying the water with distrust. Jim patted the gray stallion on the chest and smiled apologetically back at Sherlock.

“No, he’s lovely.” Sherlock mumbled, still not feeling like himself. 

The sharp ringing of the church’s bells cut suddenly through the air, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie.

“Oh, the Coronation! I have to go!” he exclaimed. 

Without preamble, Sherlock rushed past Jim towards the Palace, but stopped a few feet down the street to turn and wave awkwardly goodbye.

“I’ll see you… I mean, bye! Goodbye!” he shouted at the amused prince and broke into a run back to the Palace. As he ran, he felt a smile tugging at his lips, but he refused to let it grow. 

_Not yet._

_Maybe?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed something familiar with the first few paragraphs. I tried to play a bit with the story-telling and gave the three main characters the same waking sequence.
> 
> PS: I really don't know if seagulls preen each others feathers in the actual world, but these ones do (#disclaimer).  
> PPS:I hope you've enjoyed Billy the skull's little cameo :)


	10. King Mycroft Of Londondalle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feel hundreds of eyes staring at him, Mycroft slowly took off his gloves, placing them carefully besides the Royal Orb and Scepter. His shaking hands hovered over the objects for a second before he grab them and turned around quickly to face the assembly.
> 
> “King Mycroft of Londondalle!” the Bishop announced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to divide this chapter into two smaller ones for readability. Next chapter should be out soon, with a new song!  
> Remember, comments and kudos are love.

Up on the wooden balcony of the Londondalle Church, the small choir broke into song once again.

Sherlock would have spared a thought about the excellence of their performance were he not so deeply preoccupied in scanning the attending crowd. From his place of honour, standing a small way off to the side of the altar, the prince kept a watchful eye on the rows of guests that filled the modest church. He adjusted his stance and let a nervous sigh. Over two hours had passed since the beginning of the day’s ceremonies, and still there were no crimes to solve. No murders, no abductions, not even a simple robbery! Everyone just sat there, nice and content in their finest dress and jewelry, oblivious to his needs.

_Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself_ , Sherlock conceded, _The criminals may still be forming their plans and waiting for the perfect time to strike, when the victims are relaxed from the dancing and drinking. I just need to wait..._

He resigned himself to discreetly inspect the crowd and identify possible criminals. Having no immediate family (beside the once-again absent uncle Rudy) to attend the ceremony, the first row in Mycroft’s coronation was occupied by his ministers, who Sherlock had already studied at length. _Two affairs, one case of embezzlement, that one likes to drink. Boring…_ Behind them, in the second row, sat an elderly couple, admiring the singers with raw delight. The man, with an impressive collection of medals pinned to his broad chest, was clearly a gambling addict, who had squandered - _Oh!_

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat when he noticed Jim, sitting two rows behind the old man, looking straight back at him. The foreign prince smiled and waved discreetly in greeting. Sherlock pursed his lips to avoid his returning smile and gave a slight nod. Feeling awkwardly exposed, Sherlock forced himself to tear his gaze from the smiling prince and continued his scan of the guests, but soon enough his eyes wandered back to Jim. His heart gave another pleasant jolt in his chest when he saw that the prince was still looking at him, his brown eyes glinting with amusement.

Jim tipped his head to the side to point Sherlock’s attention to the large woman sitting next to him, who was currently struggling to keep her head upright as she nodded off to sleep. Sherlock had to cough to hide his laughter when the woman’s head dived sideways and landed on Jim’s shoulder. Jim only smiled wider and shrugged in mock defeat.

Sherlock’s attention was pulled back to the altar when the song dissolved into the air and the Bishop’s clear voice resonated in the church once again. Intoning an ancient prayer, the old man took the royal crown from its burgundy pillow on the altar and raised it solemnly in front of Mycroft, who bowed stiffly in answer. From his vantage point, Sherlock could see his brother closing his eyes when the crown touched his head.

  


  


-

  


  


A cold wave of dread spread through Mycroft’s body as soon as the royal crown was placed on his head. He tightened his jaw and forced his eyes open once again, standing to face the Bishop, who stared sternly back. Mycroft took a steadying breath and squared his shoulders as the old man turned once again to the altar. Although the Londondallian Royal Crown was a simple gold circlet, sparingly decorated with pearls, rubies and sapphires, the new king was keenly aware of the weight on his head. 

Too soon, the Royal Orb and Scepter were presented to him on another burgundy pillow and Mycroft had to push down the insane need to flee. He flexed his hands experimentally beside him before reaching quickly for the items. He stopped in his tracks when the Bishop discreetly pulled the pillow away from his reach.

“Your Majesty, the gloves…” the old man whispered, raising his eyebrows.

Nausea rolled in Mycroft’s stomach and he tried to swallow it down. He thought of his father once again, trying to summon his calming presence. Feeling hundreds of eyes staring at him, Mycroft slowly took off his gloves, placing them carefully besides the Royal Orb and Scepter. His shaking hands hovered over the objects for a second before he grabbed them and turned around quickly to face the assembly.

“King Mycroft of Londondalle!” the Bishop announced.

Mycroft kept his gaze resolutely forward as he felt the air cooling rapidly around his hands.

“King Mycroft of Londondalle!” the crowd answered.

As soon as the last word was uttered, Mycroft turned hastily back and all but dropped the chilled items on the pillow. He took back his gloves and put them on slowly, using the time to assess the damage. There were no ice crystals forming on either the Orb and Scepter, and although the gold looked duller from being chilled, it looked almost normal to the unsuspecting eye. Mycroft risked a look at the Bishop, who was smiling benignly at the cheering crowd, unaware of what had just happened. Even Sherlock, standing a few feet away from him, didn’t seem to have noticed. His younger brother flashed him with a slight smile, looking almost… proud?

Mycroft allowed himself to smile back, feeling as if a tremendous weight had come off of his shoulders. He had made it!

He raised his chin proudly in the air as the choir erupted in a joyful hymn. The guests stood up and Mycroft slowly made his way through the aisle towards the open door, ready to face his people as the new King of Londondalle.

  


  


-

  


  


Sherlock fidgeted impatiently with the hem of his jacket as he waited for Mycroft by the Ballroom’s side entrance. On the other side of the close door he could hear the orchestra playing a slow waltz, its chords obscured by the voices of the guests, talking, laughing, drinking. Oh, how he wished they’d drink their fill…

Sherlock was lost in his mental calculations of probability of violent crimes versus the availability of alcoholic beverages when Mycroft finally appeared, looking as pleased as punch. On any other day, Sherlock would offer a scathing remark about his brother’s unusual lateness, and one or two did make themselves readily available in his mind, but he pushed them away decidedly. Today he had to make sure he remained in his brother’s good books, so he opted to just plaster on a smile and give Mycroft a small bow as he approached.

In retrospect that may have been a bit too much, as his brother returned the gesture with a raised eyebrow and a curious smirk.

Sherlock was rescued from any questioning that would surely follow by the Master of Ceremonies, who had opened the Ballroom door and was making his way inside to announce their entrance to the guests.

A respectful silence settled in before the man’s clear voice rang through the Ballroom. “King Mycroft of Londondalle!” he declared.

A thunder of applause burst through, but instead of stepping forward, Mycroft turned suddenly towards his brother, mouth open as if to speak. Sherlock saw a dark shadow pass through his brother’s ice blue eyes before he shut his mouth again and walked into the Ballroom. 

Sherlock had almost no time to think about what had just happened before the Master of Ceremonies was calling his name too.

“Prince Sherlock of Londondalle!”

Another round of polite applause received the prince as he walked onto the small wooden stage to stand next to his brother.

“Nice choice,” said Mycroft, when the orchestra had resumed its playing and the guests returned to their drinking and dancing.

“Thanks…” Sherlock murmured, lost in wonder of the colours and lights in front of him. “What is?” 

“The music.”

“Oh, yeah,” the prince agreed, directing an admiring look at the string orchestra he had hired for the ball. Of course they were good, he’d chosen them. “Didn’t think you’d notice,” he added.

Mycroft seemed to ignore the slight bitterness of Sherlock’s tone and kept his contented gaze on the dancing guests. “I did,” he replied.

Emboldened by his brother’s unusual amiability, Sherlock decided to take a chance, “Listen, Mycroft, I was thinking-”

“Your Majesty, the Prime Minister of Gaulia,” the Master of Ceremonies announced, interrupting him. Reminding himself to remain civil, Sherlock swallowed down his frustration and faced the guests with a neutral expression.

The group of foreign dignitaries was headed by an elegant man in his late thirties, with brown eyes and cropped, graying hair, donning a formal military attire. The man had an air of quiet, easy competence about him that captured Sherlock’s attention as he approached the stage and bowed deeply in front of Mycroft.

“Your Majesty,” the man began, “my country sends its best wishes of peace and prosperity to the new king.”

Mycroft smiled and bowed in response. “Prime Minister Lestrade, it’s an honour to finally meet you.”

“The honour is ours, your Majesty,” the Prime Minister replied. “Allow me to introduce Minister Donovan and Ambassador Anderson.” He stepped aside to allow his companions to approach the stage and bow silently in turn

Mycroft tipped his head in welcome. “A pleasure, I’m sure. This is my brother, Prince Sherlock.” 

Pinned to the spot, Sherlock was obliged to bow to the guests and pray that he wouldn’t be caught in the exchange of mindless pleasantries for too long. He needn’t have worried because as soon as he straightened back up, Mycroft stepped down the stage to address the Prime Minister directly. 

“Prime Minister, I would like to take this opportunity to express Londondalle’s interest in re-establishing our former trade business with Gaulia, perhaps discuss some new, more innovative deals…” he droned on, leaving Sherlock to stand alone on the stage with only the empty throne for company.

_Never mind_ , Sherlock told himself, ignoring the slight twinge in his heart. _I’ve lost enough time on this. It’s time to look for my criminals._

The prince made his way discreetly down the stage towards one of the tables propped against the walls. He took a glass of wine and pretended to sip it as he studied the people around him.

Things started to look promising when Sherlock noticed a couple across the room, whispering angrily and pointing accusing fingers at each other. He was so engrossed in trying to figure out the cause for the fight that he almost jumped when an unfamiliar voice whispered uncomfortably close to his left ear.

“Trade deals, huh?”

Sherlock turned around to see Lestrade’s Ambassador ( _Anderson, was it?_ ) making a show of selecting a puff pastry from a nearby tray, smiling to himself as if they were in on a private joke. 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked in an icy tone.

Finally making up his mind, Anderson picked up a pastry and leaned back against the table with fabricated ease. Something about his self-satisfied air made Sherlock’s skin crawl.

“Trade deals, they’re so boring…” Anderson said, taking a hearty bite of the confection and spreading powdered sugar over his front. “I just tune them out when they start discussing taxes, and tariffs…” he trailed off, dusting himself disinterestedly.

“I’d imagine you’d be interested in that, being an Ambassador and all.” 

Anderson scoffed at the idea and downed the rest of the puff pastry. “Nah, Donovan usually takes care of that. I just read it off the paper. What I’m really interested in is establishing useful connections in the countries I’m appointed to.” He looked around before leaning closer to the prince, as if preparing to share a secret. “Knowledge is power, you know?” he whispered.

“Do I?” Sherlock countered, leaning away from the Ambassador. He took a moment to study the man in front of him. _Early forties, pollen allergy, unhappily married for nineteen years. Only mildly competent, career solely dependent on his father’s business contacts… and his current affair with the Minister for Foreign Affairs. Obviously..._

Mistaking Sherlock’s silence for interest, Anderson continued in his conspiratorial tone. “I’m to be appointed to Londondalle soon, and what better place to start building my network than with the royal prince, hm?” he asked with a smirk.

His smile disappeared uncomfortably when Sherlock remained still, silently staring him down. Perhaps if Sherlock gave him nothing to work with, the Ambassador would just give up and scurry off back to his friends, and Mycroft wouldn’t accuse him of saying something impolite to his guests.

But the Ambassador was more persistent than Sherlock had initially thought. The man cleared his throat and grabbed a wine glass from a nearby tray, twirling it thoughtfully before taking a hearty swig. Sherlock took the opportunity to check in on the bickering couple but was disappointed to find that they had moved away from their spot. 

“Maybe you could tell me why you kept the gates closed for so long. It’s so strange, isn’t it?” Anderson asked, but quickly backtracked, raising his free hand in apology. “I’m sorry, perhaps you don’t realize that, but everyone is commenting on how strange that is…”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, as he tried unsuccessfully to spot the couple amid the crowd. _Dammit!_

“And why did the Powers’ murderer decide to just pop back up right before the coronation, huh? Talk about coincidences...” the Ambassador carried on despite Sherlock’s resolute silence. “What made him confess? What are you hiding? Did you pay him?”

Feeling his patience snap at the accusation, Sherlock turned to the annoying man with a cruel smile.

“Well, you really are something else. Let me tell you-”. 

Before he could say his fill, someone bumped into Sherlock’s back, causing his wine to spill over and fall to the ground with a splat.

“Ops! I’m so sorry!” said a familiar voice. Sherlock smiled despite himself.

“Jim?”

“Dear me! How clumsy am I?” Jim exclaimed, stepping in between Sherlock and Anderson. “I spilled wine all over the prince!”

“You didn’t really…” Anderson began.

“Come, your Highness, let’s get you cleaned. Please excuse us!” he took Sherlock’s elbow and swiftly led him away, leaving Anderson to stare back at them in bafflement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a meta person, I've been leaving a few easter eggs around the fic, but as I was commenting the chapters with my beta @CarmillaCarmine, I realized that some of them are really obscure. I just wanted to clarify:
> 
> \- My fictional nation of Gaulia is based on the name Gaul (Gallia in Latin), a large area of Western Europe during the Iron Age that includes the modern French territory, between others. Since Lestrade is a french surname, I thought that it was a perfect excuse to include Greg in the story.
> 
> \- On the same note, the name Éiren Isles comes from the name Éire, the Irish for Ireland. Moriarty is Irish in canon, so...


	11. It's Us Against The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are we doing here, exactly?” Jim asked, swirling the glass of wine he had snagged from a passing waiter.
> 
> Sherlock took a small sip of his own wine and rested his forearms on the wooden railing. He had led Jim through several service corridors until they had reached a narrow balcony overlooking the crowded ballroom. It was an exceptional spot to observe the activity going down below, while being obscured by the heavy burgundy tapestry and dim candlelight. 
> 
> “Looking for criminals,” Sherlock answered simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the wait, but these song-chapters are hard work... I hope you enjoy it and maybe sing along, too!  
> Many thanks to my tireless beta, the talented CarmillaCarmine.  
> Remember, kuddos and comments are love <3

They had already walked out of the Ballroom and into the deserted Main Hall when Jim let go of Sherlock’s arm. 

“Sorry to whisk you away like that,” he said, “but you looked about to bite that man’s head off!”

Sherlock crossed his arms and kept his gaze down, trying to hide his pleased smile behind a put-upon scowl. “I would be doing us all a favour. One less assuming idiot roaming the Earth,” he grumbled.

Jim chuckled good-naturedly. “It would liven up this ball, at least. Violent murders tend to do that, you know?”

Sherlock’s head snapped back up. It was disconcerting to hear the cheerful prince speak so lightly of murder. _Not that there was anything inherently wrong with that_ , Sherlock thought. 

“Please don’t look at me like that! I’m not weird, I promise!” Jim said anxiously, “It’s just that I spend so much time alone, sometimes I forget how to make jokes. I’ll shut up.”

Sherlock cursed inwardly at his own awkwardness. He had had no intention of making his new friend feel inadequate. “No, it’s alright. I have a strange sense of humour myself,” he tried to explain. 

Jim scanned Sherlock’s eager face, as if trying to find any trace of dishonesty. After a few moments of silence, his eyes lit up again. “That’s good to know…" he said, suddenly shy. "Mind keeping me company for a bit? You’re the only interesting person I’ve talked to all evening.”

“I…” Sherlock stuttered, torn between the warmth of Jim's compliment and the pressing need to find the criminal ( _or even better - criminals_ ) that would put his plan into motion.

“You don’t have to, of course!" Jim backtracked. "I’m sure there are lots of people just dying to talk to you. They’ll all want to tell you about how lovely the ceremony was, how stately your brother looks, maybe comment on the quality of the fruit salad…” he rambled on.

Sherlock ducked his head to hide his smile at the obvious ploy. “Ugh, you’ve convinced me,” he conceded. “In fact, I could use your help.”

-

“What are we doing here, exactly?” Jim asked, swirling the glass of wine he had snagged from a passing waiter.

Sherlock took a small sip of his own wine and rested his forearms on the wooden railing. He had led Jim through several service corridors until they had reached a narrow balcony overlooking the ballroom. It was an exceptional spot to observe the activity going down below, while being obscured by the heavy tapestries and the dim candlelight. 

“Looking for criminals,” Sherlock answered simply.

Jim’s face lit up at the prospect. “Oh, how exciting!” he said, training his gaze on the crowd below. After a few seconds, he pointed at an uncomfortable-looking woman standing by the dessert table. “How about that one? She looks suspicious.”

Sherlock observed the woman for a moment before letting out a frustrated sigh. “No… she’s just debating whether to have another slice of cheesecake or not. I would advise her against it, considering her lactose intolerance,” he declared, already looking for another suspect.

His gaze stopped on a small group of people, chatting happily with each other. He furrowed his brow in concentration as he observed one particular man in the group.

“That man over there, though…” Sherlock gestured at his new suspect, who was apparently ignoring the conversation around him in favour of staring at another man on the other side of the room.

Jim stepped closer to ostensibly look over Sherlock’s shoulder and down at the crowd. The prince felt a shiver running down his spine when Jim’s amused chuckle resonated close to his ear.

“That’s the Olissipal envoy,” he told Sherlock in a needlessly quiet voice. “He’s been making eyes at that duke since the crowning ceremony.” As if on cue, the duke locked eyes with his admirer and smiled coyly at him over his drink. “It looks like he’s gotten through…” Jim purred.

Sherlock coughed awkwardly while keeping his eyes resolutely forward, trying to ignore how he could feel Jim's body heat near his left shoulder.

Suddenly, a woman stepped next to the envoy to whisper in his ear. Sherlock’s eyes widened when he noticed her careful hand depositing something in the envoy’s vest pocket. “Look! That woman…”

“- is his sister. She just lost their bet.”

“Why must everyone be so boring?!” Sherlock complained, turning to pace up and down the balcony.

Jim relaxed against the railing while his eyes followed the aggravated prince. He smiled kindly at his companion and took another sip of his wine. 

“You should relax, enjoy the evening,” he said, ignoring Sherlock’s eye-roll. “Londondalle is such a nice place, I can’t imagine anything bad ever happening here. The weather is lovely, the food is incredible and the people are so friendly,” he encompassed the entire kingdom with a wide sweep of his glass. ”I was smitten with the country as soon I stepped out of my ship.”

Sherlock ignored Jim’s praises and turned his attention stubbornly back on the crowded ballroom. He wouldn’t find any criminals if everyone insisted on being dull.

The silence stretched on until Jim asked, “Can I tell you a secret?” 

“Hm,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Do you know why I was in town this morning?”

“How could I?” he replied absently, still looking at the people below.

“I was looking for a place to rent.”

That simple statement brought Sherlock’s attention back to the balcony. “Here? But you’re a prince! Wouldn’t your family need you back home?”

Jim shrugged in reply. “Oh, I spend so much time away, they would barely notice if I was gone,” he explained and finished his wine with a slow gulp. “I was eighteen when my father sent me on my first overseas mission and I’ve been acting as his envoy ever since.”

Sherlock processed the new information quietly. How long had Jim been on his journeys? Even in such proximity, he was still unsure about the prince’s age. He focused instead on the facts he could deduce.

“But you have siblings. Quite a few in fact,” Sherlock stated, “Why doesn’t your father send them instead?”

“Well observed!” he exclaimed, raising his empty glass in salute before bending to put it down, “I have five brothers and one sister. I’m the youngest of the seven, so I’m the most expendable if anything goes wrong.”

“Oh…” Sherlock mumbled, unsure how to react. He put his glass away as well.

“I don’t mind, I’m used to it,” Jim reassured him with a gentle smile, “I was born fifteen years after my sister - an accident, so to speak. My mother was too old and tired to put any effort into raising me and my siblings were too busy to pay me any mind, so I grew up mostly by myself.” Jim’s warm gaze became distant as he recounted his story. “My journeys have given me a purpose, but I’ve always wished for something more…” He shook his head as he snapped out of his reverie. “Sorry, I’m probably boring you to death with my depressing story.”

“You’re not! I think I know what you mean,” Sherlock was quick to reassure him. “My brother and I aren’t close, either. Well, we used to be, when we were little. But, one day, he just _outgrew me_.” he said, wrinkling his nose at the concept. After all these years, he still felt a pang of betrayal at the thought of Mycroft’s dismissal. “Suddenly he had all these responsibilities and couldn’t spare the time for me, anymore.”

"Was that when they closed the gates?” Jim asked gently.

“How did you know?”

“Everyone knows that Londondalle Palace suddenly cut its ties to the outside world. The Holmes are one of the most reclusive royal families of the known world.”

Sherlock let his shoulders drop and leaned against the railing. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. He had wanted to repay Jim’s trust with his own story, but now he found himself uncomfortably exposed.

From the corner of his vision he saw Jim’s hand moving to rest on the railing, inches from his elbow. 

“But not anymore, I hope?” The sweetness of his tone made something flutter in Sherlock’s chest. 

He raised his head and gave Jim his most winning smile. “Not if I have anything to do with it.” 

“Is that why you’re looking for criminals? Come on, I promise I won’t tell.” Jim teased, giving him a playful bump on the shoulder. 

The easy confidence of the gesture seemed to push the words out of Sherlock again, in an unstoppable urge to impress his new friend.

“I’m looking for any suspicious activities that may lead to a criminal incident. If I can identify and ideally thwart said incident in front of all the guests, my brother will have no other option than to recognize my abilities and employ me as a full time detective,” the prince blurted out at full speed, closing his mouth with a snap when he was done. 

Fidgeting in his place, he realized that it was very important to him that Jim approved of his plan. 

“Why?” was Jim’s only response.

Sherlock felt a jolt of annoyance at the insufficient feedback. He stepped away from the railing with a huff and began to pace the narrow balcony again.

“Because I can make a difference! I know I can!” he argued, gesturing wildly. “Because my mind is rotting away behind these walls! It needs to work, I need to work! I’ll die if I don’t!”

Jim walked calmly up to him and placed his hands on his shoulders, holding his companion in place. Sherlock gave a nervous sigh as Jim locked eyes with him.

“I’ll help you,” he declared with a solemn face. “Londondalle, no, the world needs your talents! And if your brother refuses, I’ll…” he stepped back and approached the suit of armour standing by the window. He took its menacing iron mace from its metallic grasp and raised it with some effort, “I’ll just ride in and burst the gates open again!” He brought the mace down in a slow arch, as if crashing it against an invisible barrier. 

The image of the small, finely dressed man wielding such a crude weapon made Sherlock burst into laughter. After a few seconds, Jim’s facade broke down and he joined in the mirth.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” Sherlock protested half-heartedly, feeling lighter for his outburst.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be a knight in shining armour,” Jim said quietly, walking back to his friend.

Their gazes held for a few seconds of silence before Sherlock looked away, feeling uncomfortably pinned to the spot.

His brows smoothed when an idea came into his mind. He walked towards a nearby window, closed against the cold spring night.

“Can I say something crazy?” Sherlock asked, forcing an air of lightness to his tone. He did not wait for an answer and broke into a cheerful melody instead.

_“All my life has been a series of doors in my face..._

_And then suddenly I bump into you!”_ he sang, opening the window with a flourish. The chill breeze that flew in was a blessing against his heated cheeks.

Jim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the impromptu song. He was quick to recover, though, answering in kind. 

_“I’ve been searching my whole life to find my own place_

_And maybe it's the boring people or what they’ve put in the stew,”_ he sang, finishing his line with a discreet burp into his fist.

Sherlock let out a low chuckle at the faux pas. He threw a leg over the windowsill and climbed out onto the slanted roof with practiced ease.

 _“But with you…”_ he turned as he extended a hand towards his shorter friend.

_“But with you,_

_I found my place,”_ Jim answered, grabbing Sherlock’s offered hand with both of his.

“You’ve dropped your mace!” Sherlock exclaimed as he pulled his friend up towards him. 

The foreign prince shrugged his shoulders in reply, more interested in taking in the sights around him. His roaming eyes fixed upwards and, without warning, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand again and ran up the roof, pulling his taller friend after him.

 _“And it's nothing like I've ever known before!”_ the men sang, neither sparing any mind towards the danger of running full speed on rooftops.

They soon reached the top of the highest roof in the Palace, legs burning and hearts racing. Jim finally let go of Sherlock’s hand in favour of doing a pirouette, an impressive feat for someone standing on such a narrow surface in mounting boots. Sherlock chuckled in surprise.

“ _It’s us against the world!_ ” they declared at full volume, reveling in the blending of their voices

 _“It’s us against the world!”_ Jim held his higher notes in a clear tenor while Sherlock found different notes with his rich baritone, playing with the harmony of the duet.

_“It’s us against the world, with you!_ ” Sherlock pointed a finger at Jim, daring him to reply.

Jim’s smile shone in the clear moonlight.

 _“_ _With you,”_ he answered rapidly.

_“It’s us against the world...”_ they told each other, letting the sound die off.

Their gazes held again as the princes tried to regain control over their breathing. This time, it was Jim who broke the moment, flopping down gracelessly on the roof’s ridge.

Unsure what to do, Sherlock sat carefully beside his new friend, who was stretching his limbs with gusto. In front of them, the moonlit ocean spread out into the horizon, bracketed by the dark cliffs of the Londondalle bay. The gentle breeze carried a hint of salty air and Sherlock filled his lungs with it, his worries temporarily forgotten.

The prince was contemplating the calm waving of the moored ships down at the docks when a loud noise cut the stillness of the night in two sharp bursts, followed by the the sound of voices ( _two male voices_ ) locked in a heated argument, becoming angrier by the second.

Sherlock’s heart began to hammer in his chest when he turned towards Jim, who answered with raised eyebrows and clear eyes. Carefully, they made their way down the roof in search of the two arguing men. Since Sherlock was the one familiar with the surroundings, he naturally took the lead, maneuvering between rooftops and balconies with graceful ease. He had only to turn his head to see Jim’s dark form behind him, managing the obstacles with the same quiet efficiency as him. 

Satisfied that Jim would not be falling behind, or, even worse, expose them, Sherlock let himself focus solely in the task ahead. Although he couldn’t make out the words, the voices were clear ( _standing outside_ ) and moving southward ( _walking through the courtyard towards the inner garden_ ). Sherlock's lips turned in a satisfied smile. The deserted garden would be a perfect spot for a criminal act.

The prince signaled his friend to follow him and they quickly made their way towards the Western Wing, where they would have the best view of the garden. They had reached the portion of the roof over his own bedroom when Sherlock held out his hand and dropped to a crouch. Jim followed his lead and together they peered over the edge of the roof, just a few seconds before two dark figures became visible under the dimly lit archway on the opposite side of the garden. 

The two men walked swiftly along the edge of the garden, locked in an intense argument. The first man, a short, portly gentleman with a shock of white hair was gesticulating angrily at a slighter man in simpler clothes, who rebutted the attacks with a raised finger and a stern voice. Sherlock was scanning the rest of the garden when he noticed a third figure lurking behind a wisteria covered column - a young man, dressed in a plain, dark suit, was peeking from behind the foliage at the unsuspecting pair. 

“Look, over there! Do you know them?” Sherlock whispered as he pointed at the men below.

Jim wrinkled his brow in concentration and bent slightly forward. “That’s the Suomic Ambassador and his secretary. But I can’t recognize the other man.” 

Sherlock was quietly impressed by his friend’s ability to spot the third man unprompted. Not for the first time that evening, he noted that Jim was anything but ordinary.

“They look very agitated,” Sherlock noted as he applied his lip-reading skills to the pair below. His Suomi must have been worse than he thought because he could only make out a few words. “Something about… wool?”

To his surprise, Jim sat back and smiled. “Yes!” he breathed. “There’s been some conflict between the northern countries about the prices of wool. The Ambassador has been terribly effective in keeping Suomi at the front of the race.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened as the pieces fell into place in his head. “I can imagine that it would be very convenient for some if the Ambassador would suddenly…”

“... disappear!” Jim’s expression mirrored Sherlock’s own. 

“That man could be an assassin!” Sherlock whispered to himself. _It's finally happening!_

Beside him, Jim raised his hands to hide his delighted smile. “Oh, this is going to be amazing! We should follow them!”

The princes kept their stances low as they followed the arguing pair across the garden. As they moved, Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the slowly advancing assassin and wondered whether it would have been sensible to have brought some sort of weapon with him.

Focus as he was on the action below, It was all Sherlock could do to keep from shouting when he heard Jim singing softly into his ear.

_“I mean it's crazy…”_

“What?!” he whispered, schooling his features into an annoyed scowl. For all the proper occasions to finish their song, an undercover mission wasn’t one of them. 

Jim paid no mind to Sherlock’s reproachful tone and prompted him with another line.

_“We finish each other's…”_

“Deductions...” Sherlock whispered as he dropped down to an empty balcony.

“That was what I was going to say!” Jim exclaimed when he joined Sherlock. The taller prince tried to frown at his friend, but it soon melted in the face of Jim’s honest glee.

Defeated, Sherlock returned to their song. “ _I've never met someone…_ ” 

_“Who thinks so much like me!”_ They sang together, smiling at each other.

Feeling energized, Sherlock threw his legs over the wooden railing and turned towards Jim, who held out both his hands while planting his feet wide apart.

“ _Our mental synchronization,_

_Can have but one explanation…”_

With a hop, Sherlock grabbed both of Jim’s wrists and dropped down the balcony. In the next moment, he was dangling six feet from the ground, held only by Jim’s strong grip on his own wrists.

“ _You,_ ” Jim sang with some effort as he strained over the balcony to hold Sherlock’s weight.

“ _And I_ ,” Sherlock added with a bright smile, and opened his hands.

“ _Were-_ ” Jim loosened his grip and Sherlock dropped to the ground.

“ _Just-_ ” he breathed out as he made contact.

“ _Meant to be!_ ” they sang together as Jim jumped from the balcony onto Sherlock’s outstretched arms. 

The smaller prince was heavier than Sherlock had anticipated and they fell to the ground in a heap of flailing limbs. With no injury but to his pride, Sherlock felt his cheeks heat at the miscalculation. He soon forgot about it when Jim’s disheveled head popped up from somewhere beside his right elbow and flashed him with a delighted grin.

 _“Say goodbye,”_ Sherlock began with a shy smile.

_“Say goodbye,”_ Jim repeated and stood up quickly, offering his hand to help Sherlock up. He took it eagerly, not out of necessity but to please his new friend.

_“To the pain of the past._

_We don't have to feel it anymore!”_ They sang together in a complex harmony.

Nodding at each other, they jogged down the garden and into an empty corridor. 

“ _It’s us against the world!_

_It’s us against the world!_

_L_ _ife can be so much more,”_ they took turns to peek behind each corner before continuing their pursuit.

“ _With you_!” Sherlock sang quietly as he looked from behind one of the many marble columns that framed the long hallway. He raised his hand in silent warning as he spotted their suspect, hiding behind the column in front of theirs. The prince felt Jim’s warm breath on his ear when the shorter man strained to look over his shoulder. 

“ _With you,”_ Jim whispered and pointed at an enormous porcelain vase that stood right beside the suspect.

“ _With you._ ” Sherlock nodded his agreement and stepped carefully away from the column. His heartbeat hammered in his ears as he slowly made his way towards the vase. From the corner of his eye he saw Jim sneaking towards the opposite side of the hallway to hide behind another column.

 _With you…_ Sherlock thought as he crouched behind the vase.

He took a few seconds to regain his breath and look for Jim across the dark hallway. He found his friend peering intently at the foreign dignitaries, who’s angry voices could be heard echoing along the high ceilings. 

Sherlock smiled when he noticed Jim mouthing silently, “ _It’s us against the world...”_

Suddenly, the voices were silent and replaced with the shuffling of rapidly retreating steps. Sherlock heard the click of the suspect's knees as he stood to follow his targets.

“Now!” Jim’s voice cut sharply through the tense silence.

Without second thought, Sherlock sprang from behind the vase and grabbed the suspect by his arm just as he was about to run away. The man gave a surprised yelp and swung a fist at Sherlock’s chin, who was able to step back and avoid the punch. The prince took the opportunity to use the man’s momentum, and pushed him forward. Sure enough, the man lost his balance, falling face first on the ground and hitting his head on the thick carpet.

Filled with adrenaline, Sherlock didn’t spare any thought to the suspect’s injury and jumped on his back, holding his hands securely behind his back. 

“Sherlock! You’ve got him?” Jim yelled as he ran from behind his cover, his face alight with excitement.

“Yes!” he answered, delighted. Under him, the suspect groaned into the carpet and tried to shuffle away from Sherlock’s grasp.

The foreign prince kneeled beside them and gagged the suspect with his own handkerchief. After making sure his knots were secure, Jim raised his eager gaze at his friend.

“Can I say something crazy?” he asked Sherlock, not waiting for an answer, either. “Will you move in with me? We can be partners! Fight crime together!”

Sherlock smiled openly, for once not worried about his future. The suspect wiggled under him and Sherlock gave him a shove for good measure.

“Can I say something even crazier? Yes!”


	12. The Ice Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ve just foiled an assassination attempt against the Suomic Ambassador!” A shocked gasp traveled around the crowd, and Sherlock puffed out his chest, reveling in the sound. “Here’s the criminal,” he declared, giving his prisoner a shove. Still stunned, the man fell to his knees, struggling to keep his head upright as he looked up at Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The action is ramping up! Many thanks to my wonderful beta, CarmillaCarmine.  
> Remember, kudos and comments are love!

“Mycroft!”

The Ballroom fell silent at Sherlock’s imperious call. Even the orchestra petered to a stop, leaving a stunned stillness in the air. 

Sure to have captured everyone’s attention, the prince marched in victoriously, pushing the dazed assassin in front of him. Jim kept close by his side, smiling happily at the confused guests.

There was a shuffling at the back of the Ballroom as the crowd parted to let the king through. 

“Sherlock? What’s the meaning of this?” Mycroft asked with barely contained rage.

“We’ve just foiled an assassination attempt against the Suomic Ambassador!” A shocked gasp traveled around the crowd, and Sherlock puffed out his chest, reveling in the sound. “Here’s the criminal,” he declared, giving his prisoner a shove. Still stunned, the man fell to his knees, struggling to keep his head upright.

Mycroft fixed his brother with a gelid gaze. “We? Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and my partner, Prince James of the Éiren Isles.”

Jim took a step forward and bowed deeply in greeting. “Your Majesty.”

The king’s eyebrows shot up as his eyes danced between the two princes. “Partner? You’ve just met him…” he said, finally fixing his gaze on his brother. “Sherlock, are you drunk?”

“Don’t be dull, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat, making sure his voice traveled all the way across the enraptured crowd. “Jim has helped me capture this dangerous assassin and prevent a terrible tragedy. On your coronation day, no less!"

“That’s not an-” the king began, before cutting himself off. He took a deep breath before trying again in a more level tone, “Sherlock, can I speak to you? In private?”

Jim’s posture deflated at Mycroft’s request, so Sherlock rushed to his partner's side. “No. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it to Jim, too.”

He was rewarded with a grateful look from his friend and both stood side by side against his unreasonable brother.

Mycroft let out a weary sigh at the display, motioning to the guards who had gathered around them. “Oh for God’s sake… Take him away,” he pointed at the prisoner.

Sherlock felt his heart thump happily in his chest as the guards pulled the man to his feet. _And now for my reward..._

To his surprise, Mycroft stepped next to one of the guards and whispered, “Ask Mrs Thompson to find him a room and call the physician. Let no one else in.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the guard replied.

“No! Mycroft, why are you-”

The king shot Sherlock with such an angry glare that the words died in his throat.

Without preamble, Mycroft grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the end of the Ballroom, towards a secluded area at the foot of the stage. Music filled the air once again, as the orchestra did their best to dispel the awkwardness of Sherlock’s interruption.

“That man is not an assassin, you idiot,” Mycroft hissed in his ear. “He’s a spy! My spy!”

Sherlock felt like a bucket of ice water had been dropped on his head. He returned his brother’s furious gaze with a confused stare. 

“What?” was all he could say. 

Mycroft exhaled forcefully through his nose before explaining. “That man was on a mission to gather intelligence on the Suomic Ambassador, and now you’ve gone and ruined everything with your little spectacle.”

The prince made an effort to gather his wits and try to salvage the situation, but all he could summon was an intense feeling of injustice. 

“Well, how was I to know?” he argued, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “If you’d just tell me what was going on, I’d-”

“You’d what? Make even more of a mess?” Mycroft countered, his voice growing louder. Catching himself, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing in a more subdued tone. “State affairs need to be handled with patience and level-headedness, brother mine, two qualities you do not possess.”

“I may not be a statesman, but you’ve seen what I can do. I’ve solved all of your old cases and I’ve proven I can do the fieldwork… sort of,” Sherlock corrected quickly. “The point is, I can be useful - there, in the real world!” 

For a second, there was a look of sadness in Mycroft’s clear blue eyes, but it disappeared when Jim stepped out of the thinning crowd to stand next to Sherlock.

Mycroft eyed the foreign prince for a moment before turning to his brother. “I gave you those cases to… to keep you entertained,” he said carefully. “It wasn’t a job interview, Sherlock. The ‘real world’ is a cruel place filled with stupid, selfish people and I refuse to throw my own brother into it.”

“He won’t be alone, your Majesty -” Jim tried to intervene, before being cut off by Mycroft's raised hand.

“Enough! My decision is final,” the king declared in a tone that allowed for no argument. The silence hung heavily between the three men before Mycroft turned to leave. “This ball is over. Close the gates,” he told the guards as he passed them.

There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd when the guards began to herd the guests towards the doors. The music stopped abruptly, making the shuffling of feet and chiffon skirts louder for the lack of buffering. 

Sherlock felt panic rising in his throat as the ballroom emptied around him, and he made a desperate move towards his retreating brother.

“Mycroft, no! You can’t do this!” he pleaded, reaching for his brother and grabbing his gloved hand.

Startled, Mycroft turned and pulled away from Sherlock’s grasp, leaving him holding his empty glove. Wrong-footed, Sherlock gaped at the oddly cold item in his hand before fixing his brother with a defiant stare. In front of him, Mycroft stood wide eyed and pale as a sheet, holding his naked hand against his chest.

“Give me my glove,” the king ordered, his voice low and emotionless.

Sherlock shook his head and held the glove behind his back. “No, you need to listen!”

“You’re being a child!”

“Mycroft, please,” Sherlock begged in a last, desperate attempt to reach out to his brother. “I can’t live like this anymore. I-”

“Then leave,” he said simply. 

The prince took a step back, feeling as if he had been slapped in the face. He reminded himself to stay calm, but Mycroft’s cold dismissal had opened old wounds and now his resentment was pouring out in an unstoppable wave.

“I will!” he spat, raising the glove over his head like a prize. “I’ll move in with Jim. We’ll fight crime together and you’ll never see me again!”

Mycroft remained stone still in the face of his brother’s outburst, his indifference only betrayed by his rapid breathing.

“Good,” he murmured.

“‘Good’? That’s all you have to say? You really don’t care, do you?! You-” Sherlock yelled, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“What more do you want from me?!” Mycroft interrupted, throwing up his hands in frustration.

In that moment, two white bursts of energy shot from his hands and hit the marble floor with a slam. A multitude of ice shards erupted upwards, sharp and menacing.

A cry of alarm teared through the Ballroom. The moment hung frozen in the air as the people tried to make sense of what their eyes were telling them.

Sherlock was the first to break the stunned silence, stepping tentatively forward.

“Mycroft?” he tried softly.

“Sorcery!” a voice cried out from behind the prince. 

Turning around, Sherlock saw Anderson amid the crowd, pointing an accusing finger at Mycroft. One by one, the remaining guests broke from their trance and began to whisper agitatedly to each other. Emboldened, Anderson took a step forward, still pointing at Mycroft, who stood, stunned and wide eyed, behind an arch of protective spikes. 

“I knew there was something strange going on! Sorcery!” Anderson persisted, sweat beading on his forehead. "Evil sorcery!" 

Suddenly, Mycroft turned around and rushed out of the room, provoking another wave of startled cries from the crowd. 

“Wait!” Sherlock called out.

-

Mycroft felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he pushed open the Palace’s doors. His arms trembled with the effort and his mind buzzed with a thousand different thoughts. 

_I’ve failed. I let my guard down. Time to salvage what I can, save Sherlock, save the Kingdom._

He stopped at the top of the staircase when he realized that the courtyard was still filled with townspeople, who continued their own celebration, ignorant of what had just happened inside the Palace.

His mind screamed at him _. I need to run._

Hundreds of eyes turned towards him as soon as he stepped outside, surprised and delighted to have their king in their midst. 

“It’s the King! Long live the King!” the people exclaimed, raising their mugs of ale in the air. 

Mycroft took a moment to assess his surroundings. If he could just make it out of the gates, across the bridge and through the town, then he would reach the forest, perhaps find a hiding place deep within the mountains. From there he could devise a plan, and escape Londondalle.

Yes, he could do that. He just had to walk across the courtyard and reach the gates.

Trying to calm his racing heart, Mycroft raised his chin in a semblance of confidence and walked down the staircase and into the crowd. But instead of making way for their king, the people stepped in his way, trying to strike a conversation.

“Your Majesty, you honour us!” an elderly woman bowed deeply in front of him. 

“Have a pint with us!” one of the more inebriated men sloshed his mug in his direction.

Mycroft tried to maneuver around them, only to step in front of a young woman, who eyed him with concern. “Your Majesty, what’s wrong?” she asked, holding a swaddled baby that gurgled happily at the sight of Mycroft’s face.

Feeling cornered, the king took a step back and clutched his naked hand against his chest, eyes roaming wildly for an escape route. Mycroft’s panic mounted when he realized he was slowly being surrounded by the curious townspeople, eager to see their new king.

“I- I-” he stuttered, blindly backing up from the woman.

_Protect them, run._

He gasped when his back collided with one of the courtyard’s fountains, instinctively grabbing the stone edge for balance. Too late did Mycroft realize his mistake. His hand froze the dark stone, spreading the frost across the water and up the gentle jet, turning it into a menacing twist of jagged icicles that towered over the crowd.

The people screamed in terror and stepped back from him, holding their terrified children and huddling close together. At that moment, the Gaulian Ambassador appeared at the door.

But before Mycroft could yell out a warning, the Ambassador came running down the steps, pale and wide eyed, followed closely by a few of the Palace Guards. 

“There he is!” he screamed, pointing at Mycroft, “Stop him! Stop the Ice Man!”

From the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw a few men in the crowd making a tentative move towards him.

“No! Stay back!” he warned, holding his hands in front of him, “I don’t want to hurt you!”

“He’s a sorcerer! He tried to kill us!” Anderson insisted. 

“No! I-”

To his horror, Mycroft felt the tingling of magic in his palms before another blast of energy shot from his hands and hit the staircase, covering the marble in frost. The force of the impact knocked the Ambassador and the guards on their backs, making the townspeople cry out in shock. Mycroft remained transfixed as the people around him screamed and ran, amassing by the gates, desperate to flee. He felt his life crumbling around him, its destruction telegraphed on the panicked footsteps of his people and on the bodies laying on the staircase.

He released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding when, one by one, the men on the staircase began to move. Slowly, they stood up, stunned but unharmed.

“Monster! Seize the monster!” Anderson screamed once he regained his bearings, shuffling to hide behind the guards. 

"Shut up!" came Sherlock's voice as the price ran out the door, only to stop in his tracks at the sight of the frozen fountain.

Mycroft took advantage of the distraction to escape through the crowd, who now did their best to step out of his way.

“Mycroft!” he heard Sherlock call out when he finally reached the Palace’s gates.

His victory was short lived, though, because the bridge ahead was crowded with more revelers, eyeing him with a mix of awe and suspicion. Above their heads, snow began to fall in soft flakes and some turned their heads upwards, surprised at the rapidly changing weather.

_No… Protect them._ _Run._

Desperate, Mycroft turned on his heel and ran down a set of narrow steps that led to a small pebble beach below the Palace’s walls. 

The king struggled to maintain his footing as he reached the slippery rocks and made his way stumbling towards the water’s edge. With nowhere left to run, he stepped in the gently leaping water, still trying to find a way to escape. Suddenly, he heard the familiar crackle of ice forming under his feet and he realized he wasn’t standing in the water but _on it._

Wide eyed, Mycroft took a tentative step forward and, sure enough, the water froze under his foot, forming a solid surface for him to step on.

His heart gave a painful twinge at the memory of a much smaller foot stomping to freeze a marble floor. That was the last time he had willfully used his powers.

_That life is gone now, run._

Step after step, the water froze under his feet, and soon he was running as fast as he could towards the dark cliffs, the sound of his brother’s desperate call echoing across the bay.

“Mycroft!!”


	13. The Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little chapter to tide you over until I finish the next bit. Please enjoy! Comments and kudos are love!
> 
> As always, lots of love to my beta, @carmillacarmine! Thank you so much<3

Sherlock's knees hit the frozen ground as he watched in impotent horror how the ice spread slowly across the bay, trapping the moored ships in a cold embrace. In the distance, the burgundy speck that was his brother disappeared into the dark forest.

The wind was picking up, and Sherlock could feel the cold seeping through the thin layers of his suit, raising goosebumps across his skin. He almost jumped when he felt Jim’s warm hands on his shoulders.

"Are you alright?" his friend asked gently, concern written across his features.

“No!” Sherlock snapped, standing back up with a jolt. "How could I possibly be alright?!" The prince yelled, feeling his cheeks warming with embarrassment as he noticed the sudden hurt in Jim’s eyes.

Too unsettled to do anything about it, Sherlock turned away from his friend and bounded up the stone steps back to the courtyard, his laboured breath escaping his lips in white puffs of air. 

He suddenly realized that he was angry. Angry for having made a fool of himself, angry for making his brother run away from him, angry for not having discovered Mycroft's secret sooner.

As soon as he reached the top of the steps, Sherlock felt the weight of hundreds of scared and confused eyes pinning him to the spot. A few townspeople still remained in the courtyard, their curiosity outweighing their better judgment, while the honoured guests were being politely shepherded back into the Palace. All turned at the sight of the distraught prince, mindless of the thin layer of snow that now covered the courtyard.

"Bring me my horse, now!" Sherlock barked at the dumbfounded guards who ran to comply with his orders.

At the same time, Prime Minister Lestrade stepped away from the crowd and approached him in a hurried step, flanked by Minister Donovan and that insufferable Anderson.

"Prince Sherlock, what happened?" Lestrade asked, brow furrowed with deep concern.

But before he could answer, Anderson cried out, still unsettlingly pale and shivering, "You saw what happened; the king tried to kill us all!" 

"Do you ever shut up?" Sherlock countered, stepping forward despite his better judgment.

Lestrade held up his hands placatingly, making sure the prince wouldn’t come any closer to his Ambassador.

"Anderson, please, just…” he muttered over his shoulder at the frazzled man, who grudgingly crossed his arms over his chest. The Prime Minister let out a sigh and turned towards the prince once again. “Your Highness, did you know about this?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock took a moment to observe the man in front of him. Despite his questionable company, Lestrade demonstrated no signs of deception or dishonesty. His eyes gleamed with a clear, focused intent on pursuing the truth. To his surprise, Sherlock realized he had found another ally (although his usefulness was yet to be determined).

As he came to that conclusion, Sherlock felt Jim’s warm presence by his side. He chanced a look at his friend, who smiled encouragingly back, his hurt feelings apparently forgotten. 

Mollified, the prince decided to tell Lestrade what he knew. It would be best if Jim had another person he could rely on while Sherlock was away...

"No. I always thought that my brother didn't want me around. Well, anyone around, for that matter,” he told the Prime Minister, “Now I see he was just trying to protect us." 

Behind Lestrade, Anderson scoffed loudly despite Donovan’s warning slap on his arm. "Oh please, they’ve planned all of this together. I bet he has magical powers too!" 

"No!” Jim interjected, “Sherlock’s completely ordinary, I can assure you. I mean…” he trailed off, suddenly aware of how that sounded. “You know what I mean. Sorry." 

Ignoring him, Anderson addressed Lestrade once again, growing more agitated by the second. "We need to leave at once, Prime Minister. They will kill us if we stay here!"

"There’s no way out, you idiot,” Sherlock snarled. “The bay is frozen solid and there’s a storm coming," he pointed towards the mountains, where dark storm clouds were gathering to obscure the moonlit sky. 

The prince took petty satisfaction at the sight of Anderson’s paling face. 

"Oh no! What will we do?" the Ambassador asked, grabbing Lestrade’s arm with a vice-like grip.

Anderson’s histrionics were cut short by the trotting of Sherlock’s horse, being led into the courtyard by one of the guards. Silently grateful for the interruption, the prince mounted his black mare with one graceful motion and took hold of her reigns. 

"I’ll find Mycroft and bring him back. He’ll make things right," he told the group with more confidence than he actually felt.

"I’ll go with you," Jim offered earnestly.

"No. I pushed Mycroft away, I should be the one to bring him back. I need you here to take care of Londondalle while I’m gone. Alright?" he asked quietly.

Jim raised his chin and returned Sherlock’s cautious look with a sober gaze. "On my honour," he declared.

The prince felt his lips pull into a smile as he turned his horse and addressed the courtyard in a clear voice.

"I leave Prince James in charge of the Kingdom in my absence. Understood?" 

There was a mutter of assent from the crowd before Sherlock felt a soft bundle being pressed against his leg. Looking down he saw Jim holding up a woolen cloak for him to take.

"Please be careful," his friend asked as he threw the cloak over his shoulders.

"Never," Sherlock smiled and galloped through the gates and into the night.


	14. Weathering The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back! My apologies for the long hiatus, but work has been hectic in this post-confinement times. Here is another chapter, beta-ed by the lovely CamillaCarmine <3\. Please enjoy!

_Hindsight is twenty-twenty._

As much as Sherlock hated proverbs, that particular one had been rattling around his brain for the last two hours - approximately the time when he had lost all feeling in his fingers - and he had to admit there was some truth to it.

Had he not been so focused on galloping after his brother and into the supernaturally cold night, he might have remembered that a light cotton suit and kidskin gloves were not adequate clothing to face a snowstorm. 

The wind howled between the tree branches, making the falling snow cling to his eyelashes and bury in his hair. Shivering, the prince tried to wrap the woolen cloak tighter around his face and neck only to expose his legs to the biting cold. He let out a long sigh that condensed around the wool, making it uncomfortably damp. 

Another thing he should have remembered is that horse-riding, although outwardly impressive, is extremely uncomfortable. The beast had been steadily climbing up the snow covered hill for what felt like a century, each heavy step jostling Sherlock in his saddle and wreaking havoc on his lower back.

With his nose damp, his spine in shreds, and his hands and backside completely numb, Sherlock entertained petty thoughts of simply turning back and waiting for Mycroft to grow tired of his tantrum. Preferably while sitting in a deliciously hot, scented bath. 

Sherlock sniffled and tried to pop his back while his mare trudged along the interminable forest. 

This was his brother’s fault, really, for not having taken him into his confidence. If Mycroft had considered anyone besides himself and his giant head, they wouldn’t be in this mess. He could at least have had the decency of using some sunny, tropical magic, that would cover the kingdom in powdery white sand and - 

Suddenly, a crow flew from a nearby tree, dislodging the snow that covered its thin branches. It plopped wetly in front of Sherlock's mare, startling the animal, unused as she was to the sounds of the forest. The mare whinnied and buckled while the prince did his best to regain control of his mount, but his limited riding skills couldn’t keep him from being thrown off the saddle and face first in the snow.

Unharmed but much colder, Sherlock resurfaced in a flurry of snow and limbs just in time to catch a glimpse of his mare galloping back down the hill and disappearing into the night.

“No! Nonononono! Come back here!” he cried out, trying to stand up and falling again on his knees when his numb legs refused to obey him.

“Fine! Run away! That seems to be the trend, these days!” he yelled into the darkness, equal parts furious and ashamed.

Answered only by the whistling of the wind, Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath. 

He shook his head to dislodge the snow that clung to his hair, ignoring the slight dizziness caused by the action, and brushed his shoulders and arms. Then he pushed his numb hands into the soft snow to extract his legs and stand back up. After a few seconds of wobbling like a newborn foal, Sherlock was able to lock his knees and stand straight once again.

Heartened by this small victory, he tucked his frozen hands under his arms and took a careful look at his surroundings. So, current status: he was in the middle of a mystical snow storm, alone and cold - so very cold. _No, cold is a subjective perception_ , he reminded himself sternly. His body was his transport and was, unlike his useless mare, completely under his mind’s rule. He’d just have to order one foot in front of the other. Again. And again. Yes, he could do this. He could thread through the snow on his own as long as his mind was clear. Onwards, then, to find Mycroft, or barring that, some dry place to spend the night and wait out the storm.

His mind set, Sherlock began shuffling through the snow, his gaze focused intently on his feet should they dare disobey him. So focused was he that he did not notice how his path ended abruptly in a steep drop. Before he realized his mistake, Sherlock had stepped over the edge, without time to even yell in surprise.

The unfortunate prince tumbled down the steep hill with his head tucked in his arms, before rolling to a stop at the bottom of an ice cold stream. As soon as he touched the water, instinct took over and gave his tired body the jolt of panicked energy necessary to jump up and away, mindless of direction or plan. 

Sherlock's mad scrambling came to a halt a few feet away from the stream when he felt his clothes stiffen and freeze around his limbs. Light headed and short of breath, the prince suddenly realized that his only chance of survival was to keep moving, in whatever shape or form. _Transport, it's just transport…_ he recited, trying to ignore the way his vision was beginning to tunnel. 

As he made his way laboriously onwards, a distant part of his mind recalled the image of his old toy soldiers, happily wobbling on stiff wooden legs as his own little hand pushed them towards a fantastic adventure of his own making.

"This adventure isn't much fun," he grumbled as he felt something oozing slowly from his throbbing forehead and congealing over his left eyebrow. Perhaps he could stop, if only for a moment. Maybe if he just stood there, his body would become stiff like the toy soldier. Perhaps a big hand would descend from the sky, pick him up and put him away in the toy box, safe from the cold.

 _No, I must remain rational,_ Sherlock strained his eyes towards the distance, desperate to find a place to rest. _Cold is a subjective notion... n_ _othing more than a concept. I can do this- Smoke! Oh, thank God!_

Not far from where he stood, over the top of the trees, rose a steady plume of smoke against the metal gray sky. Sherlock's heart beat wildly in his cold chest as the prince made a renewed effort towards the source of the smoke. Slowly, he was able to waddle through the storm until a small wooden lodge was visible between the trees. The fluttering yellow light that filtered through the windows beckoned the freezing prince forwards until he found himself at the foot of the wooden steps, without much recollection of how he crossed those final yards. 

As his sodden boots climbed the welcoming steps, his burning eyes landed upon the wooden sign hanging over the large door. 

_Wandering Angelo’s Trading Post And Sauna,_ the sign announced in crudely carved letters.

Sighing in relief, Sherlock pushed open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I changed the order of the scenes, but I think you'll forgive me in the next chapter, because someone is making a comeback!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love and make me very happy.


	15. The Ice Harvester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back... back again? (no, not Eminem). As usual, my thanks to the great CamillaCarmine for the beta!

Sherlock pushed his back against the door, closing it with a slam. He heaved a great sigh and rested his head against the wood, unable to slide down into a sitting position for the stiffness of his legs. 

He took a few deep, steadying breaths, gathering his surroundings. He had entered a large shop, filled with an impressive array of products - from vegetables to medicine to climbing gear, all displayed in neat shelves and cabinets across the room. There were no signs of life beyond a large fire crackling in the hearth on the far wall, and that was all that Sherlock needed, really. He closed his eyes and let the warm, smoke-scented air fill his nostrils and warm his lungs, relaxing his aching shoulders and back. 

The sense of relief started to disappear, however, as the warmth that first felt so blissful against his skin began coiling under his clothes and around his limbs, making him feel nauseous and light-headed. His vision was blurring worryingly around the edges when a large man walked in from one of the back rooms, with open arms and a wide smile.

“Hello, welcome to-” he began, but the smile fell from his face at the sight of Sherlock's sorry state. He rushed to the prince’s side, his rugged features now etched with concern. “Oh, you poor sod...” the man (Angelo, he assumed) mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock turned to address that comment when he suddenly noticed the room tilting sideways. The man’s large hands grabbed the prince's shoulders just before his knees gave way, keeping him upright just by the sheer strength of their grip.

“You’re freezing!” the man exclaimed, his worried eyes dancing over the prince’s face. “Come sit by the fire, I’ll bring you a blanket, no, two! Maybe some cocoa!” 

Sherlock tried to refute the barrage of offerings but found his jaw stiff and his tongue uncooperative. “I’m... fine…” he managed to hiss through his teeth.

Instead of reassuring the man, his response made him scowl even harder. “Oh, what possessed you to go outside in this storm!” Angelo lamented, “Dressed like this, no less!”

“It wasn’t ss-snowing…” Sherlock retorted, tired of being treated like a dimwit, but soon realized he hadn’t the time or energy to explain. He had to focus on his mission. “I’m loo-ooking... for my brother,” he managed to say, “Did you sss-ee anyone... pass through here?”

“The only one mad enough to be out in this weather is you, young man...” Angelo answered kindly, relieved to see the prince becoming more responsive. At that moment, the front door creaked open and Sherlock felt a blast of cold on his back before the door was closed again.

“... And that gentleman! Is that him?” Angelo asked, looking over the prince’s shoulder.

Sherlock tried to turn his head but another bout of vertigo made the room spin around him. “I can’t...” he mumbled, feeling his vision blurring again.

“Welcome sir, please have a look around, I’ll be with you shortly.” Sherlock could hear Angelo calling out in the distance.

There was the sound of uneven steps on the wooden floor and then he heard the stranger’s voice near his head.

“What happened? He’s soaking wet!” 

“He just walked in looking like this!” Angelo answered anxiously. 

Sherlock felt another pair of hands touching his temples and swiftly pushing under his collar to touch his neck. “He’s freezing! We need to get him out of these clothes.”

“That’s what I told him!”

“I’m still… here!” Sherlock grumbled, pushing against the darkness in his vision. He felt himself moving and realized that the men were dragging him by the shoulders towards the fireplace. “I’m fine, I’m not even... shivering anymore.” 

“That’s because you’re in hypothermia, you idiot!” the man replied curtly while Angelo deposited the prince in an armchair by the fire. “Sit down and give me your feet!” he ordered.

“What?” Sherlock stared incredulously at the man, who kneeled swiftly in front of him and made a motion to grab his right ankle. Sherlock planted his booted foot resolutely down on the carpet, objecting to the manhandling.

“Your feet,” he repeated flatly, keeping his eyes down on Sherlock’s boot, “I need to check them for frostbite.” 

“I told you-”

“Listen…” the man interrupted, raising his head. He fixed his dark blue eyes on Sherlock’s lighter ones before explaining in a softer, almost confidential tone. “We need to get you out of these wet clothes and warmed up again. Right now. Alright?”

Sherlock held the man’s gaze searchingly for another moment before nodding.

“Alright.”

  
  


-

  
  


The prince had been quietly contemplating the crackling fire when a mug of hot cocoa was shoved into his hands. He grabbed the offering as best he could before looking up to find Angelo smiling happily at him. 

After being divested of his ruined suit and boots, Sherlock found himself sitting comfortably by the fireplace, clad only in a pair of thick blankets and his underwear, his bare feet curling pleasantly into the carpet. 

He thanked his host and took a sip of the drink, smiling back at him when he noticed the slight alcoholic tinge in his tongue. 

Angelo’s small brown eyes twinkled with mischief and he ruffled the prince’s still damp curls.

“Ah, it’s good to see you looking so rosy-cheeked!” he told Sherlock, stepping back. “I’m going to prepare the spare room for you. You must stay the night!”

“I really need to-” the prince began, but Angelo raised a warning finger. 

“No argument, young man! I insist!” he told him before disappearing into one of the back rooms, humming a happy tune under his breath.

Sherlock was left gaping in outrage when a soft giggle brought his attention back to the room. Sitting in the armchair in front of him was the strange man, sipping his own cocoa and looking amused. He looked a few years older than Sherlock, short but with a solid build (although obscured by a frankly hideous cable-knit jumper) and close cropped blond hair. His nose and cheeks were burned by the cold and his small hands were thick skinned and criss-crossed with scars (the marks of a manual laborer) , but his eyes were bright and clear, signaling a sharp mind.

The man put down his mug and broke the silence. “So, feeling better?” he asked amiably.

Sherlock took another sip and nodded, “I am. Thank you…?”

“John, John Watson.” 

“Thank you, John Watson. I’m Sherlock… Holmes,” the prince said after a second of hesitation.

John’s eyebrows shot up in alarm and he sprang to his feet. “Your Highness! Forgive me, I had no idea,” he blurted, keeping his eyes downcast.

Sherlock raised both his hands placatingly, regretting his indiscretion. “Calm down. Please, call me Sherlock,” he added for good measure.

John eyed the prince for a moment before sitting back down.The blizzard continued to rage outside the cabin while both men studied the contents of their respective mugs. 

John was the first to break the silence. “If you don’t mind me asking…uh, Sherlock, what are you doing out here?” he began tentatively. “Where are your servants, your guards, anyone?”

“I came by myself. I’m looking for my brother,” Sherlock stated simply.

“The King?”

“Obviously.”

John mulled this information for a moment before continuing, “But the coronation… Wasn’t that today?”

Sherlock rubbed his tired eyes with both hands, mindful of the bandage John had applied over his temple. He took a long, weary sigh before explaining. “Yes, but then we got into an argument and things got a little out of hand. Long story short, the King summoned this snowstorm using his magical powers and ran off into the mountains.” he paused for effect but John didn’t react to the mention of the King's magic abilities. Slightly disappointed, Sherlock grabbed his mug and continued, “I’m the one who upset him, and I’m the only one who can bring him back. I’ve deduced that if I can find the source of the storm, I’ll find my brother.” 

“And you’ve also deduced the best thing to do was to go into the forest, at night, in the middle of a blizzard, by yourself.”

“I don’t expect _you_ to understand,” the prince huffed into his cup.

“Excuse me?” came the response, in a tone as icy as the wind blowing against the window panes.

“Londondalle is in grave peril and I am the only capable of saving it,” Sherlock answered, slowly raising his eyes to lock with John’s accusing gaze. “I couldn’t lose any time sitting around planning a lovely little field trip.”

“You wouldn’t be able to save anyone if you’d lost your toes to frostbite,” John answered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherlock placed his cup on the side table and steepled his fingers under his chin in a deliberately slow, contemplative pace. 

“I can’t ask for an ice harvester to grasp the concept of serious matters of state,” he stated clinically. “The fate of the Kingdom is lying in the balance and you’re worried about _wet socks_.”

John suddenly slammed his hands on the armrests and stood up from his seat.

“Well, let me tell you what I can grasp-!” he countered, baring his teeth.

Before John could expound any further, Angelo came clomping into the room, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

“Your room is ready, my friend! I put out some warm clothes for you,” he told Sherlock with unmasked pride. 

Not waiting for an answer, he turned to John and clapped him amiably on the shoulder, almost throwing him off-balance. “And you! Thank you so much for your help! You will stay as well, of course! Although I have no more beds, I'll prepare you a cot by the fire,” he offered.

John held Sherlock’s steely gaze for another second before shaking his head. 

“No, it’s alright. I’m leaving,” he mumbled, grabbing his woolen hat from the mantelpiece and making for the door. 

Angelo’s happy expression faltered for a moment before returning with another offering, “Then, please, choose whatever you want from the store. It’s yours, free of charge!” he motioned towards the packed shelves.

John stopped in his tracks and looked back at the shopkeeper. “Well, I did come in for a length of rope...” John began.

“It’s yours!”

His eyes widened at the shopkeeper’s generosity. “And a new pick-axe?” he tried.

“Of course!” Angelo replied with the same joyful tone, already collecting the items.

“And some carrots.”

“What?” the shopkeeper’s balding head shot up from behind a shelf.

“For my-”

"For his reindeer,” Sherlock interrupted from his armchair, already bored with the interaction.

"How…?” John began but closed his mouth with a snap. “Never mind,” he told the shopkeeper with a strained smile, “Yes, my reindeer. She’s waiting outside."

Angelo chuckled and dove back behind the shelf. “Very well.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this adventure! Drop me a comment or kudos if you can!


	16. Reindeer are Better Than People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fresh new chapter! A million thanks to my beta, the wonderful CarmillaCarmine.  
> Please enjoy.

John adjusted his scarf tightly around his neck as he walked down the cabin steps and into the storm. The wind met him with full force and he had to widen his stance to avoid being knocked over. The snowstorm had worsened while he had been inside, John noticed with a pang of guilt. He threw his bag over his shoulder and made his way forward, to where he had left Harry guarding their sled.

John found the reindeer standing in two feet of snow, with her head bowed against the wind. He rushed to meet her as best he could through, but he quickly realized he needn’t have worried. The reindeer’s ears perked up as soon as she noticed John approaching and bounded happily to meet him halfway, apparently unaffected by the cold.

“Sorry about that, old girl,” John yelled over the wind, patting Harry’s snout with his gloved hand. The reindeer snorted in reply and started to nose the bag that John held tightly in his other hand.

He pushed the reindeer’s head away and chided, “No, we need to get out of this storm, first!”

The reindeer mewled in protest but let John lead her back to the sled. After laboriously strapping Harry into her harness, he helped her push the sled into motion, ignoring the shooting pain in his right leg. 

The snow proved to be too deep, however, and after straining to move only a few feet, John yelled at Harry to stop. “This is useless," he told her between heavy breaths, "We need to find a place to wait this out.”

And that was going to be a problem, John realized. It was too dangerous to go into the forest in this weather, but he would be damned before he set his foot back in the trading post. As he considered his options, Harry grunted and shook her head to dislodge the snow in her fur. Suddenly, an idea popped into John's head. 

He quickly unbuckled Harry from her harness and fished his bags from the back of the sled. He then carefully guided the reindeer back to the trading post, but instead of stopping at the front, John took them around the building. Sure enough, he found a modest stable a few yards away from the cabin, with its doors blissfully unlocked.

The ice harvester dropped his bags with a huff and lit the gas lamp hanging by the door. He rolled his shoulders and took an appreciative look around

The stable was empty except for a couple of farming tools resting against a corner and a few haystacks neatly piled in the center of the room. It certainly wasn’t as comfortable as the trading post, but it was dry and safe from blizzards and entitled idiots. 

Harry, having finished her own inspection of the stable, was looking eagerly at John, waiting for her treat. 

“Yes, yes, I know…” he smiled and reached for Angelo’s bag while Harry breathed noisily over his shoulder. After some rummaging, John found the bundle of carrots and held them over his head. The item was swiftly snatched from his hand to be appreciated in peace near the pile of haystacks. 

"You're welcome!" John added sarcastically and was answered only by a grunt and a crunching sound. Feeling strangely annoyed, John opened his own bag to extract a thick blanket and an old, battered lute, carefully wrapped in a cotton cloth.

He spread the blanket over the haystack closest to Harry and laid down against it with a huff. After a few moments of tuning the lute, John began to pluck absent-mindedly at the strings, letting his mind wander. The simple, metallic sounds filled the small stable with a gentle melody while the wind continued to rage and moan outside. 

John let his fingers run through a few simple chords, trying to make out the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. Alone with Harry, he decided to improvise a little song.

_“Reindeers are better than people._

_Harry, don't you think that's true?”_ he leaned towards the reindeer, who raised her ears in recognition, but kept working through her carrots.

Sighing in mock disappointment, John continued with a high, squeaky voice. 

_“Yeah, people will trick you and curse you and cheat you._

_Every one of em's bad, except you!”_

“Why, thank you, Harry,” John bowed his head at the reindeer and she raised her head in surprise, a string of drool dripping from the corner of her mouth. 

John yawned for a few chords before continuing in his normal tone.

_“But people dress better than reindeers._

_Harry, don't you think I'm right?”_

Harry tilted her head in concentration. John chuckled and repeated his impersonation of the reindeer’s voice.

_“That's once again true, for all except you!”_

“Haha, very funny,” John added in his normal voice, putting a hand over the strings to silence them. That was enough silliness for a day.

He stood up and limped towards the bags to put his lute away. He turned the gas lamp to a minimum while Harry turned around herself, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep.

 _“Let's call it a night…”_ he told Harry as he laid back on the hay. Harry rested her head next to John’s shoulders and sighed deeply, making strands of hay shoot up in the air around her.

 _“Good night,”_ John added in his reindeer voice.

 _“Don't let the frostbite bite...”_ he finished quietly, pulling the blanket over his shoulders and closing his eyes.

-

John had been fast asleep when a cold gust of wind and snow blasted him in the face.

“Bloody hell!” he yelled, sitting up in alarm. 

His bleary eyes struggled for a second before he realised that the stable door was wide open and that beyond it stood the silhouette of a tall man, cut against the backdrop of the snowstorm.

“Get up,” the silhouette ordered in the rumbling baritone of the royal prince.

“What? No!” 

“Get up,” the prince repeated, stepping into the stable. “You’re taking me up the mountains to look for my brother.” 

As he came closer, John could see that the prince had had the presence of mind to accept Angelo’s offering of new clothes. He was now wearing a long black coat made of thick wool, decorated along the edges with embroidered green leaves and burgundy flowers. There was a dark blue scarf wrapped securely around his neck and black leather boots on his feet, but - John noticed - no hat on his head. Probably didn’t want to mess his curls, the vain idiot.

John fixed the prince with his most commanding stare. “Go back to bed, you maniac! You should be resting.”

“I’ve rested enough. There’s no time to lose, get up,” the prince countered, unfazed.

Behind John, Harry whined and stood up, sensing the tension in her companion. Feeling his temper rising but not wanting to commit any offence against the Crown, John decided to cut the conversation short.

“No. Go away.” John answered. He turned his back to the prince and laid back down, pulling his coarse blanket towards his ears.

Silence hung heavy in the air before the prince spoke again. “I’ll pay you.”

John considered the proposition for a few seconds before looking over his shoulder. 

“What makes you think I need your money?” the ice-harvester asked with a raised eyebrow. He quickly regretted his decision when he saw a self-satisfied smile pulling on the corner of the prince’s lips. 

“Because you’re not a rich man,” Sherlock answered in the rapid-fire pattern John was starting to associate with him. “You depend on the profits of each ice-harvesting season to survive the rest of the year, and this season has been abruptly cut short. Besides, carrot prices will surely skyrocket with all this ill timed snow. Entire crops, ruined!”

Hearing that, or perhaps just responding to the prince’s earnest tone, Harry mewled dejectedly and started pushing on John’s shoulder with her snout. Defeated, John sat back up, pushing Harry’s head away from him. 

“Alright,” he conceded, “but we leave in the morning! I won’t put Harry in danger just because you have no sense of self preservation,” he warned, wagging his finger for good measure. 

To his surprise, the prince’s smile turned into an earnest, boyish grin, that constricted John’s chest in a way he steadfastly ignored. But the smile was short lived, as Sherlock, catching himself, quickly schooled his features into a determined scowl. 

“Deal.” Nodding once, the prince closed the door firmly against the storm and marched inside, plopping down on the haystack next to John.

“What are you doing?!” John asked, perplexed.

Sherlock crossed his arms and kept his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him, stubbornly ignoring Harry who was sniffing his coat and hair inquisitively. 

“I’m keeping an eye on you to make sure you won’t leave without me,” the prince declared matter-of-factly as Harry kneeled down and rested her heavy head on the prince’s unwelcoming lap. 

“Suit yourself, I’m going back to sleep.” John announced and laid back down, tucking his blanket firmly around himself. After a few seconds he added, “By the way, Harry snores.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's coat is based on the black corset Anna wears with her winter outfit. If you google it you'll see the floral pattern I mentioned in the chapter.


	17. Let It Go

The snow crunched under Mycroft’s boot with each unsteady step forward. The wind kept whistling angrily in his ear, pushing and pulling on his heavy cape and kicking up errant snowflakes into the air while he strained to keep his balance.

He had been making his way through the wilderness for the better part of four hours, mind focused only on escaping as far as his weakening legs would take him. As he walked on, the dense, dark forest had slowly given way to shallow vegetation, until there was nothing around him except for a flawless blanket of shimmering white snow. 

The king paused for a moment to regain his breath and look around him. A quick survey of the terrain was sufficient to conclude he was currently near the summit of Whitehall Mountain, one of Londondalle’s most inhospitable landmarks. From his vantage point he could see the snowy peaks of the lesser mountains all around him, breaking through the sea of gray storm clouds below and stretching upwards towards the clear night sky. The moon shone brightly at this altitude, a bone-white disc that took a yellow hue as the night wore off. Far in the east, dawn’s faint pink fingers were starting to push against the dark horizon. A new day arising.

Suddenly, the reality of his situation crashed over Mycroft with full force. He had failed his mission, his father and his kingdom, and had left his brother to deal with the aftermath. His cold heart clenched in his chest. The thought of Sherlock - naive, impressionable Sherlock - burdened with a responsibility he had no skills to assume, made a tiny, irrational part of his brain urge him to turn back.

But what good would it do? The people would never accept a freak as their king. They would turn against him and anyone who would associate with him - his brother included. _Fear will be your enemy_ , the troll chief had said.

Mycroft scowled at the memory. No, he had failed and now he must pay his dues. If he was still a king, this was his kingdom now, the only one he was fit to rule over. Endless expanses of snow and stone, with only the howling wind for company. He would rule over it until the ice claimed him at last.

 _Maybe it isn't just Sherlock who has a penchant for the melodramatic,_ Mycroft thought with a derisive chuckle. Adjusting his cape behind him, he pushed up his chin and stepped forward, a new monarch claiming his kingdom.

_“The snow glows white on the mountain tonight,_

_Not a footprint to be seen,”_ he sang quietly,

 _“A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I'm the king…”_ his voice broke suddenly on the last word and he clamped his mouth shut, trying to reign in the sadness that threatened to spill over.

After a steadying breath, he pushed on. This was supposed to be the easy part. _Alea iacta est._

_“The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside,_

_Couldn't keep it in, heaven knows I've tried.”_

What would his father say, if he’d seen what had happened? Would he be angry? 

Mycroft huffed humorlessly and looked upwards at the night sky, strewn with millions of celestial bodies, all twinkling indifferently at his plight. No, his father would never be angry at him - he would be sorry. He would offer meaningless platitudes and then brush everything under the proverbial rug.

Like a reflex, Mycroft felt himself repeating the mantra he had learned on that fateful night, but instead of soothing him, the words grew bitter in his mouth.

_“Don't let them in, don't let them see_

_Be the great man you always have to be._

_Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know..._

_Well now they know!”_

Outrage boiled inside of him, until it spilled over. He pulled his remaining glove angrily out of his hand and threw it in the wind. Enough hiding! Enough pretending! The damage was done, his life was finally ruined. He could do no more - he would do no more.

_“Let it go, let it go,_

_Won’t hold it back anymore!”_

He remembered the Grand Stamford telling him how his magic would become foul, how the icy swirls would turn into spikes that pierced those around him, if given the chance. So now he threw his hands left and right, letting the magic flow freely from his fingers and ricochet against the snow, daring it to turn sharp and menacing. But, to Mycroft's surprise, only snowflakes erupted from his fingers, forming intricate spirals that disappeared in the wind. For the first time since that night, he could see beauty in his powers. 

With a sad smile, Mycroft allowed himself one last bit of sentimentality. He pointed at the snow beside him and drew a circle with his hand, willing it to form the shape of Mrs Hudson, the snow-woman, from her snowy bun to her loopsided skirt. It smiled vacantly at Mycroft, its icy arms stretched wide. If she only knew how life had changed since the last time he had seen her. 

_“Let it go, let it go,_

_Turned away and slammed the door!”_ he declared, stepping away from the snow-woman and the indulgence she represented. 

_“I don't care_

_What they’re going to say._

_Let the storm rage on, alone never bothered me anyway.”_

With a sigh of relief, Mycroft unclasped the sapphire pin at his neck and felt his heavy cape fly off his shoulders. He turned around to see the shrinking speck of burgundy disappear into the thick grey clouds below and felt like his problems disappeared with it as well. He would live his life as he was meant to, alone with his powers, where he could hurt no one else. To his amazement, that decision filled him with a novel sense of relief, of... freedom?

_“It's funny how some distance_

_Makes everything seem small,_

_And the fears that once controlled me_

_Can't get to me at all!”_

Filled with renewed energy, Mycroft turned towards the mountain's jagged summit and broke into a run. The burning in his muscles was not painful anymore, but grounding. He was alive, this moment was his and he could do anything he wanted to with it. 

_“It's time to see what I can do,_

_To test the limits and break through!_

_No right, no wrong, no rules for me._

_I'm free!”_

He suddenly came to a halt when his path was interrupted by a large rift in the snow. Mycroft spared a knowing smile towards the dark abyss before throwing his hands forward. At his command, a set of snowy steps manifested at his feet, climbing over the chasm towards the other side. When he put his foot on the first step, the snow turned into translucent ice and formed a majestic stairway sided by ornate handrails.

Mycroft climbed purposefully up the stairs, not doubting for one moment that the staircase would support his weight. He continued his song at full volume, reveling in this newly found sense of freedom.

_"Let it go, let it go._

_I won’t try to change their mind._

_Let it go, let them go_

_I’ve left them all behind!"_

Reaching the other side of the rift, Mycroft took a moment to appreciate the view. _This is the perfect place for my new palace_ , he thought, _up on the highest mountain in Londondalle, perfectly isolated from the rest of the world._ In an ultimate act of division, Mycroft stomped his foot down and from under it a gigantic snowflake was formed, slowly spreading its branches across the snow.

_"Here I stand,"_

_And here I'll stay,"_ he declared to the mountain with a raised chin and clenched fists,

_Let the storm rage on..."_

As the snowflake expanded under him, Mycroft could feel his magic vibrating in his chest and tingling in his fingers, begging to be let out. _I will not hold back, not anymore,_ he promised himself. With a look of deep concentration, he gathered a sphere of energy in each hand and threw them on the ground. They shot through the snowflake's limbs with a purple flash and sprang upwards into the air to form icy pillars all around the king. With a flick of his wrists, Mycroft pushed the snowflake upwards along the pillars, forming the basic structure of a large building with the snowflake (and himself) at the very centre.

_“My power flurries through the air into the ground,_

_My mind is spiraling in frozen fractals all around,”_

As he added walls and doors and windows to his new home, Mycroft's mind never once turned to the one he left behind. Unlike Londondalle Palace, his new palace was growing into an imposing rectangular building, filled with straight angles, sharp roofs and carefully interspaced balconies. The ceiling finally closed over Mycroft's head and dripped down into an intricate crystal chandelier, that glowed blue and purple in the dark room.

_“And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast._

_I'm never going back,_

_The past is in the past!”_

Protected in the walls of his new palace, the king took the ultimate weight off of his head. After fixing it with a scowl, Mycroft threw his crown away as far as he could. The golden circlet crashed against one of the forming ice pillars and became incrusted in it, barely visible under the frosty surface.

He thrusted his left arm forward and white swirls of magic erupted from his hand, climbing up his arm and spreading along his body. As they spread, his solemn black military attire transformed into a pearly blue three-piece suit that shimmered with a thousand ice crystals. Fascinated by the change, he opened his right hand and the swirls coalesced in his palm, forming an umbrella made of translucent ice. 

_“Let it go, let him go._

_And he’ll rise like the break of dawn!_

_Let it go, let him go,_

_His perfect brother’s gone.”_

He gave the umbrella an experimental twirl and smiled as he clutched its reassuring weight in his hand. Finally feeling like himself, Mycroft marched forward towards the hall’s magnificent balcony, ready to greet the first day of the rest of his life. He was the Ice Man, and this was his true kingdom. 

_“Here I stand in the light of day!"_ he announced to the mountains.

_"Let the storm rage on,_

_Alone never bothered me anyway!”_

Smiling contentedly, Mycroft turned back inside and, with a snap of his fingers, all the doors of his Palace closed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm soooo sorry for the hiatus, but between life's general shittiness and writer's block, this chapter was very hard to put to words. But hopefully now I can go back to a kinda-sorta rhythm with this fic. Remember, comments and kudos make me very happy :)Still unbeta-ed for now, may be edited later.
> 
> 1\. Alea iacta est - latin phrase meaning "The die has been cast." Mycroft is a classical snob like that.  
> 2\. Whitehall - Although a physical location in London, it's also used as metonym to refer to the civil service section of the UK government.  
> 3\. Mycroft's ice palace is based on the SIS Building at Vauxhall Cross where Mycroft supposedly has his office.  
> 4\. The phrase "Alone never bothered anyway." was taken from @kittenkin's post on tumbrl and my inspiration to write this fic. Many thanks to them.<3


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